


Memento Mori

by snarklyboojum



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, M/M, Memento (movie) fusion, Temporary Character Death - Jack Harkness, Wonky storytelling, home-made tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:22:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarklyboojum/pseuds/snarklyboojum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The palest ink is better than the best memory.”  - Chinese Proverb  </p><p>Memento fusion for the reel_torchwood challenge on livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento Mori

_we are the hollow men  
we are the stuffed men  
leaning together  
headpiece filled with straw. alas!_

* * *

There’s blood and bits of other things sliding down the wall, though Ianto tries not to look too closely as he calls up the camera application on his PDA. His hands are steady when he focuses the lens on the still body before him. A simple click and it’s there forever, pixelated evidence of what he’s done.

He stares at the blinking cursor for a moment, unsure how to label something like this. _Companion Number One_ , he types, _Captain Jack Harkness_. 

He saves the image to a new folder and turns off his PDA, his Guide. The screen dims slowly into the darkness of the building. Knees shaking, he lowers himself to the floor, careful to avoid the blood pooling around the corpse. Ianto sits in a bit of sunlight streaming through a broken window and wonders how many times he has to do this before the Doctor comes and stops him.

* * *

_The room is…well, it’s just a room. Just some anonymous room with bad lighting and scratchy sheets. It feels like the first time you’ve been there but you’re not sure; you could have been resting on the bed for days - months. This could be your empty room in your empty house for all you know. But no, there’s nothing you recognize except for a messenger bag by the door. The nightstand’s drawers are empty except for a note about how to dial an outside line on the phone._

_It’s a little frightening, not knowing where you are or how you got there. The windows look out onto a dreary street, though the haze in the distance and birds in the sky mean the sea’s not too far away. It’s like a thousand other streets you’ve seen; you could be in London or Wales or Venezuela, for all you know. The uncertainty isn’t a new feeling, it’s just unsettling._

_You may not know where you are, but you do know who you are and what you’re meant to be doing. There are just… holes in your mind where memories should be. The last thing you remember is smoke and heat and metal so you try not to think about it._

_Your suit jacket is hanging in the closet, the inside pocket reassuringly heavy. The PDA inside is still quietly running the search program; it will alert you if anything important happens, so you take a moment for inventory. There’s a paper bag on the bed next to you stuffed with pens, sewing needles still in their packaging, thread, shaving cream, and a razor. A note is crammed against the side of the bag, instructions to shave your right thigh and the tattoo you should place there. You stare at the words for a moment, thinking about what they mean._

_Still, you always make it a point to trust your own handwriting and that wonky little f could come from no one else._

_Time to start shaving._

* * *

There’s a huge SUV parked outside the warehouse when the taxi pulls up, the conspicuous type designed to guzzle gas and intimidate tourists at zebra crossings. The man leaning against it is about as subtle - the period military coat and designer shades make for a shiny anachronism in the morning sun. He greets Ianto with a grin and pays for the taxi before Ianto can even get out of the backseat.

The man’s expression remains fixed after the taxi pulls away, his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses. Ianto’s hackles rise. Those teeth are far too bright to be real. Maybe this stranger is an alien, and Ianto’s escorting him somewhere for Torchwood? He feels for a note in his right trouser pocket but the man speaks before Ianto can do more than grasp the bit of paper nestled inside.

“Nice suit, Ianto. Not really appropriate for the area, though. Of all the places in Cardiff to meet, I still don’t understand why you picked here.” The man has an American accent. Ianto supposes that explains the teeth, anyway.

He squints against the brightness, fingering the paper but not yet taking it out. “It’s quiet and deserted. No one will bother us here.” He recognizes the old warehouse from his misspent youth - the home of nefarious schemes and drug deals. There’s a weight at the back of his belt that suggests this isn’t altogether a virtuous meeting, either, and he tugs at his jacket, hoping to settle anything that might have gotten jostled on the ride over.

The grin quirks up at the side and Ianto’s mouth waters, inexplicably. “You and me, out here all alone… Whatever shall I do with you?” He sticks out a hand to shake and Ianto grips it reflexively. “Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Three. You know, I used to consider myself unforgettable until you came along.”

The Captain’s thumb rubs against the soft part of Ianto’s wrist before pulling smoothly away. It’s subtle but only in the most obvious way possible, and the look in the Captain’s eye suggests that the rumors about Torchwood Three were true, after all. 

Ianto takes a deep breath and straightens his tie. “I assume you’ve heard about my condition. I-“

“Have lost the ability to form short term memories due to a head injury and an overdose of retcon. Yeah, you might have mentioned it once or twice.” The Captain gives him a long look, the smile slowly fading from his eyes. 

Ianto stares back, uncomfortable in the silence. He knows that look. Captain Harkness is trying to gauge whether or not Ianto remembers the last time they met each other - if they’ve met each other at all. It’s possible he’s trying to catch Ianto in a lie or prove he’s faking his condition. It seems like a forfeit to read the note in his pocket, though there’s little doubt in his mind that it would tell him why he was meeting Harkness here.

He’s just about to break and ask what two Torchwood agents are doing meeting at an abandoned warehouse in the middle of Cardiff when Harkness spins on his heel and heads toward the front doors of the building. Ianto takes a moment to appreciate the dramatic whirl of his coat then follows quickly behind.

It’s shadowy and dark inside the warehouse compared to the brilliance of the early morning outside, and Ianto nearly runs headlong into the broad back of Captain Harkness, stopped just a few paces from the door. Blinking to adjust his vision, Ianto can barely make out a dark smear on the floor in front of them. It’s hard to tell whether it's blood or some kind of machine oil - with the history of the place, Ianto assumes it could be either. 

Harkness crouches for a better look, tucking the sunglasses into the open 'V' of his dress shirt. While he’s distracted Ianto pulls the paper out of his pocket and reads it quickly. It’s torn from the notepad he keeps with him at all times and written in his own messy script.

  
_CJ Harkness is a companion. **KILL HIM!** Do it for Lisa._   


Ianto feels strangely detached. Calm. Like the heartbeat pounding in his ears belongs to someone else. The weight at the small of his back makes much more sense now. _I’ve finally found one_ , he thinks. _How long have I been looking?_

He pulls the gun – an antique Webley of all things - and takes careful aim between the Captain’s broad shoulders. Harkness straightens from his crouch though his eyes remain fixed on the stain. “It was never meant to get this far, Ianto. Someone’s messing with you, changing your information. It’s not safe anymore.” He sighs and wipes his hands together, brushing away invisible grime. “There’s an island I want to take you to. It’s small, out of the way. More like a hospital than anything else. It wasn’t ready when you were first injured, but now… I checked with the head nurse this morning. I think you’d be helpful there. You’d be safe.” 

_Hospital_. Ianto’s been in Torchwood long enough to know their idea of a safe hospital. He can actually feel his body kick-start at the idea of being forced into a place like that, nerves jangling through his arm and making his hand twitch on the grip of the gun. 

_Keep calm_ , he tells himself. _Keep calm. Do it for Lisa._

Harkness turns at the small click of the safety going off. His whole body seems to droop at the sight of the Webley. “Oh,” he sighs, “not this again.” 

“I’m not going to any hospital, Captain. I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be.”

“Ianto, put the gun down.”

“No. I have to kill you. If I do then the timeline will fracture and the Doctor will come to fix it.” And then Ianto would make him do the same for Lisa and Canary Wharf. Somehow. “The Doctor will come if I kill you.”

“No.” The barrel reflects huge in the captain’s eyes; for one terrifying moment Ianto wonders if he’s made a mistake. “He really won’t.”

Ianto takes a deep breath and adjusts his aim on Harkness’ chest. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand, but I have to do this. It’s for the greater good. The world isn’t supposed to be like this - surely you can see that? Once everything’s better it will be like your death never happened. You’ll be fine.” 

“Time travel doesn’t work that way, Ianto. I should know. You can’t fix what’s already broken... and I was a fool to try.” Harkness raises his empty hands but takes a step closer, stopping when Ianto raises the gun pointedly to his head. They stare at each other for a moment.

Ianto can feel the time ticking further away, his thoughts getting hazy. If this drags on any longer there’s a danger he’ll lose it and get too confused to continue. All he has to do is tighten his finger on the trigger... 

He never should have let Harkness turn around.

Ianto only realizes Harkness is moving forward again when a beam of light from the broken window makes his hair glow golden. “This isn’t you, Ianto. You don’t want to do this.”

He needs to pay more attention. Focus. “Yes, I do. And I hardly think you’re one to judge who I am.”

Another slow step; the gun is trembling inches from Harkness’ face now and he won’t _stop talking_ , his voice a low buzz in Ianto’s ears. “I know you better than you know yourself,” he says, stepping closer still. “You see a stranger in the mirror every morning.” 

“Shut up.” _Don’t let him distract you._

Harkness’ eyes catch the sun, glistening bluer than the ocean. “You’re not certain of anything anymore and that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it? You don’t even know who you are.”

“Of course I know who I am. My name is Ianto Jones, I work for Torchwood One in London-”

“That’s who you _were_. Torchwood One doesn’t exist anymore. _You_ don’t exist anymore. The Cybermen killed you just like they killed _her_.”

This time it’s Ianto stepping forward, the muzzle pushing against Harkness’ skin. “Shut. Your. Mouth.” 

“But they didn’t kill her, did they? That was all—“ 

“ _I said shut it!_ ” Ianto rushes forward, pressing the gun hard against Harkness’ forehead and leaning in, the grip hot in his hand. 

Harkness leans right back, staring past the gun into Ianto’s eyes. “I can do this all day, Ianto. Is that what you want? Will killing me make you happy?”

Ianto’s teeth grind together and he pushes the sound from between clenched jaws. “ _Yes_.”

He pulls the trigger, recoil pounding up his arm. Harkness’ head rocks back, blood and brains spattering a Rorschach on the wall behind him. The gun falls from Ianto’s numb hand, echoing when it hits the floor the same time as the body.

He stares at the mess for a moment, heartbeat slowing, then pulls the Guide from his inside jacket pocket and opens the camera application.

* * *

_Tattoos always remind you of Lisa. She’d designed six and was working on a seventh before she died. She often joked that if the “alien thing” didn’t work out she could always open her own tattoo parlor, add a couple piercings, and be a real punk girl. You’d have to work reception there, handle appointments and do the accounting. Dye your hair pink to match the dress shirt she bought you for your birthday._

_It was a good fantasy, one that got you through hours of interviews and filing, even after the ghosts appeared and management went insane. There was never a post-Torchwood scenario where you weren’t together, scaring the tourists on Piccadilly. Though for all your imaginings you knew deep inside that the two of you would never leave Torchwood. And even if you did you weren’t likely to remember working there or having met each other, anyway._

_Researching the effects of retcon made that_ very _clear, if nothing else._

_Until the day Torchwood struck them down, Lisa kept her tattoos limited to places she could hide with sleek suit jackets or tailored dresses. Avant-garde expressions of self were strictly forbidden in Torchwood Tower and the bursts of color on her dark skin were always a shock when she peeled her clothes off at the end of the day. Sometimes you’d peel them off for her, tasting the surprise of each one with your tongue._

_Your favorite rode low on her hip, just barely peeking over the cotton of her knickers. She’d returned to the flat not long after you’d moved in together with cotton taped over the new tattoo, surprisingly shy about showing it off. You pulled the small strip off in the end, sinking to your knees to better to see what mark she’d taken without telling you first. The thin overlapping circles looked like ripples on a pond, or like the Celtic swirls on a stone you’d seen in the museum on your second date. Their flow along her skin appeared organic, though there was a simple maths to the curves that begged for touching. When you asked her what they meant she’d mumbled something like_ chamber _or maybe_ coffee _, you couldn’t be sure. Lisa was always smarter than you and saw how the world connected differently than other people did._

_She’d eventually run her thumb over your eyebrow and whispered, “They remind me of you.”_

_You spent hours that night ghosting your mouth over the rings, getting lost in the patterns and gentling the tender skin until Lisa moaned and pushed your head lower and to the left._

_Tattoos were never the same for you as they were for Lisa. You’d played with the idea of getting one when she’d been alive - a stylized_ L _on your thigh, maybe – but needles make you queasy and you could never quite work yourself up to it. Now they weren’t an expression of anyone’s art or passion but an essential part of the system that allows you to function. A necessary way of keeping information with you, no matter the circumstances._

_Still, you’re glad Lisa was an ink-junkie - with the confidentiality agreement you signed on your employment at Torchwood you couldn’t let just any tosser with a needle have at you. You’ve had to do most of the tricky bits yourself. The preparations are almost ritual by now: Drink a few shots from the hotel mini bar to bolster your embarrassingly low pain threshold and to keep your hands from shaking too badly. Disinfect the needle - just in case – then tie the thread to the side. Let the thread soak up the ink from the broken pens. Take another shot. Make sure your design is exactly what you want to say._

_Lisa would have hated the rustic quality of the lettering – she abhorred home-made tattoos - but what the tattoos lack in style they make up for in reliability. Your own handwriting anchored under your skin is something you can trust. The words are_ truth _and you know it without question. You always will._

_The phone on the nightstand goes off just as you break open the first biro, ink seeping into the towel you’ve cushioned on your leg. You manage to grab it before the second ring, jostling the headset into place between your shoulder and ear. The unfamiliar voice on the other end is almost lost over your heart pounding in your ears. You can’t think why anyone would be calling you, let alone in some random hotel room._

_“Hello? Who is this?”_

* * *

The sunlight’s just creeping onto the tabletop when an alarm goes off, startling Ianto into nearly dropping the vibrating PDA. Quickly minimizing the file he was reading, Ianto opens the search application flashing in the corner of the screen.

A tutorial begins automatically when he opens the program, explaining the altered blood cells it’s programmed to search for and how Torchwood modified the PDA to scan every human within an expanding radius for them. The tutorial references his own notes on the Doctor and how known companions interviewed by Torchwood all had the same abnormal biochemistry. It reminds him that the only predictable way to control the Doctor is through his companions.

He hurriedly skips to the end of the tutorial – there’s nothing there he doesn’t know already – and the results of the latest scan spill onto the screen. It’s immediately apparent what caused the alarm: the search came back positive. 

There was a companion in Cardiff. Granted, the city and era had the highest concentration of Doctor-sightings anywhere in the world (which Ianto still found hard to believe) but to actually _find_ a companion in this current time so quickly… The Doctor had access to all of space and time. The odds of finding someone in Cardiff _right now_ that he’d deemed important enough to abduct and drag along for the ride were practically impossible. Ianto had only tried in the first place as a desperate final attempt to track the Doctor’s movements. To actually locate a companion must mean the timeline was wrong, that it was _meant_ to be fixed.

Ianto’s plan will work. It’s the only chance he has of forcing the Doctor’s hand; surely such a being kept track of his chosen few? If they were in danger he’d appear to help them… or at least to avenge their deaths, if nothing else. It’s the only hope Ianto has.

He reads through the search results quickly, rubbing absently at a bit of soreness in his shoulder. It was a single signature, the mutated cells so concentrated that the companion lit up the screen like Piccadilly Circus. The readings were coming from somewhere near the Millennium Centre, according to the map overlay. 

Fuck. He could _walk_ there from here.

Though the search program tagged most people with a number, a select few – those that donate blood locally or have had a previous experience with Torchwood – have a name listed as well. The blinking cursor labels the companion as “C J Harkness”. 

_Why does that name sound familiar?_ Ianto’s sure he’s heard it somewhere before.

Minimizing the scan results, Ianto searches for the word “Harkness” in the accessible parts of the Archive on his PDA. The lovely Guide has almost the entire Doctor File and even some files normally too classified for Ianto to access without additional clearance. He’s lucky to have access to anything at all – it’s a breach in national security to export archival information away from Torchwood property. The contact that copied the files for him must either really like Ianto or really hate Torchwood.

Only one entry for the name: a candid photo of a grinning man he can only assume is C J Harkness. The image is hosted in his private gallery of all places, which means he must have taken the picture himself. Ianto had been close enough to a companion to take his picture and didn’t do anything about it? Had he not known?

The label under the picture is brief but tells him everything he needs to know: _CPT Jack Harkness, leader T3 Cardiff - Don’t believe his lies._

Of course. The legendary Captain Jack of Torchwood Three. Rumors about the enigmatic leader ran - _had_ run rampant through the Tower. It’s fairly obvious now that they were all true. Ianto pulls a thin pad of paper and pen from the left pocket of his jacket and hastily scribbles a note: _CJ Harkness is a companion._

The Guide dings again - a different sound this time - and Ianto nearly jumps out of his skin as it vibrates right off the table. He catches it in his right hand, bounces it to his left and narrowly avoids dropping it by slamming it against his thigh. A brief burst of pain flickers through his leg but fades to a dull throb after a moment. He breathes carefully to calm his heart, and then looks at the screen.

The calendar icon is blinking. He taps it and a meeting reminder opens. _Ten a.m. – Meet with Jack. 1975 Lobel Drive._ Jack. Awfully informal for a Captain of Torchwood. The only thing on Lobel Drive was an abandoned warehouse that Ianto used to knock around in as a kid. That’s assuming it hasn’t been torn down and replaced with a Starbucks in the years since he’s been in town.

Ianto rubs at his shoulder and tries to think things through. He must have already contacted the companion and arranged a meeting. No turning back now. God, could he really going to go through with this? Could he kill another human being, even if the deed would be erased when time reset itself? And what was he going to kill him with - his bare hands?

Closing the calendar application brings up the Guide’s desktop wallpaper. DON’T PANIC, it says, in large friendly letters. His mind conjures up a perfect image of Lisa reading at the kitchen table in her pajamas, coffee mug forgotten and cold on the counter top behind her. He used to tease her about reading science fiction. She’d flip him the bird and flash the 42 tattooed on her arm.

He puts the Guide away in the proper pocket and returns to the note. _**KILL HIM!**_ he adds. _Do it for Lisa._ The note is placed in his right trouser pocket.

Rising from his chair and in a hurry to keep his appointment, he trips over the messenger bag laying at his feet. Embarrassed at almost forgetting it (again) he nearly misses the dull _thump_ when his toe connects with what should be an empty side pocket. He ducks into an alley next to the café on the way out; he doesn’t want to cause a fuss pulling something alien out of his bag in the middle of a crowded café and one never knew when dealing with Torchwood. 

Instead of some alien artifact there is a gun stuffed tight in the pocket. A very old Webley from the look of it, with three rounds left in the cylinder. Well. That solves one problem.

Ianto tucks the gun into the waistband of his trousers - the suit jacket loose enough to cover any suspicious bulges. He takes one more deep breath and steps out to hail a taxi.

* * *

_“Prove it.”_

_The string of numbers and letters coming from the headset are perfect, though the cadence and rhythm is a little off. It’s certainly possible that the codes haven’t changed since Canary Wharf, though you can’t help but think that they must have. The agent_ could _be using outdated codes to get you to talk, but really, what would be the point?_

 _You catch the writing the back of your left hand out of the corner of your eye._ Good advice _, you think, and turn back to what you were doing before the phone rang._

_Cradling the headset against your shoulder, you quickly run the lighter along the length of the sewing needle to sterilize it. The agent on the other end of the line keeps talking, apologizing for bothering you in your hotel. “No, I understand,” you reply. “You have to follow procedure about things like this. I have to be cautious because of my condition, that’s all. You know about my condition, right? I mean, if you’re calling for a status update then I’m sure you already know about that.”_

_You listen for a moment and check the paper in front of you a final time to be sure of letter placement and spelling. The first needle prick into your skin is sharp, but not unbearable. It’s relatively easy to keep your voice steady when you answer their question._

_“I just prefer to talk to people in person. It’s easier to gauge their reaction that way. Well, it used to be part of my job.” It’s surprising the agent doesn’t know that already if they’re in charge of your case. “Why, what does it say in my file? Oh. I was part of the team studying the effects of retcon. Had to interview the subjects when the scientists were done with them and then compile their recognition pre- and post-retcon.”_

_One letter done and you take another shot from the bottle at your side for fortitude. Probably not the best idea while on the phone, but you always were good at multitasking._

_“It’s a valid research project no matter what the field agents say. We know retcon affects the part of the brain that creates memory, but not how or how much of the drug should be used per event in relation to the effected timescale. If an agent gets the dosage wrong then you could have a civilian unable to form new memories or access old ones. It’s enforced brain damage; you can’t just lob pills in the water supply and hope for the best. There’s a science to it.”_

* * *

The café is busy this early in the morning, but Ianto’s able to find a small table near the front windows. The city outside looks a little like Cardiff, though he last remembers being in London. Still, no reason to worry about it when breakfast was cooling on the table. Tucking the messenger bag on his shoulder between his feet he takes a bite of the warm bacon and egg sandwich, only realizing after the grease hits his tongue exactly how hungry he is. He swallows the whole thing in three bites and is well into the other pastry when a woman Ianto’s never met before slides into the chair opposite him, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. She’s pretty in a librarian sort of way - not quite his type but lovely all the same. Ianto makes an effort to chew gracefully; given her expression, though, his cheeks must still puff out like a cartoon chipmunk’s. 

There’s a loose strand of hair artfully framing her face. She moves it out of her eyes with a knuckle, making herself comfortable at Ianto’s table. “Sorry it took so long, they had to run into the back for more milk. I’ve got your espresso, though I -- Are you eating my croissant?”

Ianto swallows, guiltily. “Um. Yes?”

The woman frowns but passes the coffee to him anyway. “That’s all right. I’ll get another one on the way out and take it back to the Hub. You must have been hungry.”

She sips daintily from her cup – something with chai from the smell – and Ianto feels around in his inside jacket pocket as unobtrusively as possible. 

It’s empty. His PDA is gone. It’s not in any of his other pockets and a quick check of the floor around his feet comes up short of anything but crumbs. The messenger bag is zipped tight and he would _never_ put the Guide in there. He must have left it somewhere - _oh shit_ \- he left it and now he’s stuck in a Starbucks with a woman he doesn’t know who hasn’t stopped smiling at him since she sat down. What the _fuck_ was he going to do?

He returns the woman’s smile - strained a little after witnessing his frantic searching - and attempts to think rationally enough to calm his shaking hands. The Guide was gone; he has to get through the moment before he can do anything about it. Feel out the situation. Nothing to worry about. The PDA would probably turn up in the lost and found somewhere soon, anyway. He can handle a little conversation without it. 

Ianto sets the remains of the croissant down, carefully wiping his buttery fingers on his napkin. The woman is watching him expectantly, fiddling with the lid of her drink. The whole thing is unbearably awkward. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I have this condition-”

“Oh!” Her skin darkens ever so slightly in a blush, the rose on her cheeks highlighting full lips and dark eyes. Yes, definitely librarian-pretty. “I’m sorry, Ianto, I completely forgot! It’s not like me, I’m so sorry. My name is Toshiko Sato. I work for Torchwood Three.”

Ianto’s spine snaps straight at the mention of Torchwood and the memories of what happened there. Three was in Cardiff - so he was back - and had a very small employee base. Higher mortality rate than One or Two, based on the statistics from the last fifty years. And then there were all those _rumors_. Even the one about the bipedal space dog, which Ianto finds a little hard to believe.

He pushes his untouched coffee across the table towards Ms. Sato. “If this is about Canary Wharf I should warn you that retcon doesn’t work on me anymore. It’s useless to even try.”

The smile fades from her lovely mouth as quickly as the steam dissolving from their mugs. “What? No! Is that what you think? No.” One of Toshiko’s earrings gets tangled in the loose strand of hair when she shakes her head. “I would never do that to you, Ianto. This is just breakfast. Two friends going out for breakfast. The coffee’s just coffee, though it’s probably getting cold. It’s safe, I swear.”

“I don’t know anyone from Torchwood Three.”

She tugs at her earring, the small beads only knotting further. “We helped in your rehabilitation. You needed some therapy after... um, your injury, and we were in the best position to offer it. You were in our base last night and I asked you out for coffee this morning. That’s all. There’s no need for retcon or secrets.” 

She glances down at his left wrist and Ianto notices writing there for the first time. _Trust Torchwood_ , in his own inelegant scrawl. It doesn’t come off when he rubs a thumb over it and he thinks about what that means. _A tattoo is truth, a way to carry information without question…_ After a moment he reaches over to help untangle her earring, the hair silky against his fingers. Studs really would be far more practical in her line of work but Ianto isn’t going to mention it now. She blushes again at the contact and he can’t help but wonder exactly what he was doing in their base the night before. 

He snags his coffee on the way back across the table, taking a careful sip. It doesn’t really matter if the drink _is_ retconned, anyway – he won’t remember this conversation in twenty minutes one way or the other. The espresso is exactly as he likes it; dark, with a hint of sweetness. _Just like his women_ , he thinks, and immediately feels ashamed. That his inner sarcasm has grown an American accent is a worry for another day. 

“Sorry,” he says. “With my condition it’s hard to trust people. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Her smile is smaller this time, and her eyes lower to the table and back again. “I’m not insulted, just embarrassed. I don’t normally forget things like this. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” 

He’s beginning to wonder if they’ll spend the whole meal apologizing to one another when she pulls a small black square out of her bag. Ianto grabs it out of her hands, immediately thumbing the power button on the side. The PDA comes to life with a cheery little hum and Ianto can actually _feel_ the tension sliding out of his body as the wallpaper brightens into existence. DON’T PANIC, in large friendly letters.

He pushes the thoughts of Lisa aside and begins familiarizing himself with the programs and information linked on the desktop, scanning the notes he’s written in lieu of file names. He opens the Battle of Canary Wharf document with a lump in his throat. 

_The Cybermen come from an alternate universe, accessible to our own via the ghost shifts. Several Daleks used the shift as well, fighting the Cybermen inside Torchwood Tower. Low in numbers, the Cybermen converted Torchwood staff to fight the battle for them. This you know._

_The Doctor - held prisoner for a short time by Torchwood One - stopped the battle and defeated both alien fronts, though it is unclear how. The Doctor then abandoned the survivors (twenty-seven, not including those partially converted or missing in action) to the fire consuming levels four through thirteen and escaped using the TARDIS (see DF10693). It has been suggested that his then-companion (an unidentified Caucasian woman, blonde) was killed during the battle._

_It is the Doctor and his manipulation of the TARDIS that have the greatest possibility for reversing the events of Canary Wharf, though the alien is notoriously erratic and unpredictable. Access to a time machine makes him doubly so. There is only one constant when dealing with the Doctor: he will have a companion nearby. His dependency upon and relationship with certain humans is a weakness that can be exploited if handled delicately._

A cough from across the table makes him jump guiltily in his seat. The woman – Tomiko? Toshiko? - is still there, taking a final demure sip of her coffee. Ianto concentrates hard for a moment, focusing on what they were talking about a few moments ago. _Toshiko_. Her name is Toshiko.

He minimizes the file, slipping the PDA into his inner jacket pocket and offering a sheepish smile. She swallows her drink and waves a hand at him. “Oh, I understand completely. I’ve been caught up in tech before myself. Sort of an occupational hazard, actually.” She nods at his PDA. “Jack left it on my desk last night. The screen was cracked, remember? It was easy to fix, so I got it done first thing this morning. I took the liberty of recharging the battery and running a few maintenance programs for you. It should work even better now than it did before; a few of the programs were seriously corrupted, probably from accessing the databases remotely. I should have given it back right away but I suppose it must have slipped my mind. Things have been a little hectic lately…” 

Ianto nods, though he has no idea who Jack is or how the Guide was damaged. He should make a note to be more careful with it – there was information stored inside that shouldn’t be available to the public. Hell, if _Torchwood_ knew what he was doing… 

He holds his own cooling espresso just in front of his face, blocking his expression from her line of sight. “Did you read any of the files? There’s some sensitive information archived in there.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that.” Toshiko’s earrings are in danger of getting tangled in her hair from all the swinging. Studs would be far more practical in her line of work but Ianto is hardly going to suggest it now. “I didn’t even turn it on; Torchwood can gain remote access using our mainframe. We thought it was a good idea in case you, you know, forgot to charge it or left it in the loo or something.” 

His breakfast churns in his stomach, the rising acid threatening to burn a hole straight through his waistcoat. Torchwood’s had access to his files all this time? What if they found his plans for the Doctor? What if they changed something without his knowing? 

But the tattoo on his hand tells him not to worry. He strokes it, searching for the truth in his mind. _Trust Torchwood. Trust Torchwood._

Toshiko continues, unaware that Ianto was moments away from bolting from his chair. “It’s a good thing you brought it in when you did. It’s fascinating technology, really, a mix of earth and alien matrices working together. I’m not sure where Suzie dug it up but I wouldn’t mind taking a closer look if you ever feel like upgrading.” 

Ianto smiles politely but keeps the Guide securely in his pocket, uncomfortable with the gleam in her eye. “Thank you for your help, Toshiko. I’d be lost without it.” 

“You’re welcome. I’m surprised Suzie didn’t notice the corruption the last time she scanned it for you. This has been her project from the beginning, though I’m normally the one doing tech-things. I had my hands full with One’s debris at the time and she wanted to help you. You’re one of the few things she has kept an interest in lately - you and that bloody glove.”

A cheerful sound interrupts her just as Ianto’s pocket vibrates. Toshiko’s shoulders tighten; he’s eerily reminded of One’s field agents springing to alert at an alarm. “Is that your PDA? What’s wrong with it?”

He pulls the Guide out of his pocket and absently unlocks the keypad. “Nothing, sorry. It just goes ding when there’s stuff.” The calendar icon on the Guide is blinking rapidly, reminding him of an appointment. He opens it and laughs. “Oh, look! 9:00 is breakfast time. I’m ahead of schedule today.”

Toshiko laughs, too, and the tension melts out of her shoulders. She brushes a strand of hair from her face – artfully arranged – and watches him fiddle with the Guide for a moment. “It’s good to see you again, Ianto. You had us all worried when you stopped coming round. Jack, especially, though he’d never admit it.”

 _Who’s Jack?_ He takes another sip of coffee, grimaces, and sets it down. Cold. He hates cold coffee. “You needn’t worry, Toshiko. I’m fine. I have projects to keep me busy and this to keep me sane.” He waves the PDA before setting it down on the table. “It’s not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s my life. I’m functioning. I’m fine.”

“You’re fine.” Her voice is softer, contemplative, and Ianto is sure she knows he’s lying. There’s only one thing in the universe that could make _him_ fine. “Tell me about her. Please?”

“Why?” He considers playing dumb for a moment but, really, what’s the point? There was only one her she could possibly mean, anyway. 

“Because you like remembering her.” She’s blushing again, charmingly. “And because I like watching you remember her. Your smile is a little more real then.”

He sighs and leans back in his chair, watching people walk past the window. “What can I say? She was smart and gorgeous. Way out of my league, but-”

“No.” Tosh’s hand on his wrist is warm; it feels like a long time since anyone’s touched him. “Don’t just say the words. Close your eyes and _remember_ her. The way she was.”

Ianto sighs and does as she asks – closes his eyes and thinks about _Lisa_. Within moments his senses are swimming in her: the way she smelled, tasted, looked. Lisa is always easy to conjure, a specter skirting the boundaries of his mind. Like she’s hidden forever just beyond the corner of his eye. 

Despite – or perhaps because of - her nearness, it’s hard to talk about her, to explain to Toshiko why he loves her so much. “All I have left are pieces,” he says. “Little things I never considered important. That I never put into words. All these little moments…”

_The smell of old paper, waterlogged and loved._

_Painting her toenails to match his ties. Laughing when he paints his, too._

_Leaving all the dishes dirty in the sink, except for the coffee mugs and her favorite cereal bowl._

_Lilies, always lilies._

“And then I have these extreme thoughts; flashes of feeling. Of want.”

_The curve of the sun on her skin and how soft it feels under his lips._

_The gleam of metal in her ears and ink under her skirt._

_Circles spooling down her hip like ripples in a lake._

“I put all these thoughts together and I get the feeling of her, of someone I love. I miss her so much it hurts to breathe. I think about how I lost her and how I hate what took her away. How I’ll do anything to get her back.”

_Fire reflecting in the metallic wetness of her cheek, powdery grit falling from his hair onto her face. Ash and retcon in his mouth._

_Her smile._

He opens his eyes to find Toshiko watching him, eyes shiny. She takes a deep breath and gathers their empty breakfast things to throw away. “I hope you find it, Ianto. Whatever it is you’re looking for.” She pauses on her way past to kiss him gently on the cheek, just barely grazing his skin with her lips. It’s like being kissed by a ghost.

She’s almost out the door when he gathers his wits enough to call her name. Toshiko turns, and the click of the camera on his PDA is almost lost in the busy café. “Something to remember you by,” he tells her, and her smile is blinding.

“My contact information is listed in the maintenance file. Call me anytime.” And then she’s gone, out of the door and into the sunlight rising in full force outside. 

He settles back into his chair and saves the image of Toshiko in his files, cross-referencing it to the maintenance file she mentioned. Like all the shots taken by the PDA the details are grainy and pixelated , but he thinks he’s captured the sadness in her eyes. _Toshiko Sato_ , he types, _a friend. Good with technology. Call her “anytime”._

He examines the other icons on the desktop, restarting the search program and reviewing the files Torchwood has on Canary Wharf and the Doctor’s involvement there. The sunlight’s just creeping onto the tabletop when the alarm goes off, startling him into nearly dropping the PDA vibrating in his hands.

* * *

_“I was part of the team researching Compound B67 and its effects. Just took notes and ran data, but it was interesting work. Before the experiments field agents just dosed witnesses by estimated age and body weight, which is inaccurate and leaves all kinds of space for loopholes. With the new information on how the chemical interacted with the brain we could make drug administration more precise and less damaging.”_

_The rhythm of the story takes hold of Ianto’s mind, helping him ignore the pain of the needle. His hands continue their work without him telling them to do so, the words appearing on his skin like magic._

_“The scientists would pay some daft student fifty quid to memorize something – a set of numbers or a poem – and I’d quiz them on it and their activities throughout the day. It was important to set up a timeline of events so that we could establish how much memory was lost depending on dosage. Usually memory loss was preceded by drowsiness and loss of motor skills; I’d give them a retcon tablet and send them to sleep it off in one of the labs. We’d measure how long it took to take affect and how the brain reacted to it.”_

_Lisa had made you a badge to wear on Thursdays:_ Do not operate heavy machinery while deleting the MiB from your brain. _Thursdays were always black-suit-white-shirt-black-tie day in your color-coded wardrobe. You’d thought it was hilarious until your supervisor caught you wearing the badge and gave you hell for it._

_“After an hour or so I’d wake the student up and quiz them again to see how much they could recall. The goal was to target the specific information we provided them but leave the rest of their daily activity intact. It was tricky stuff. Like... they’d remember driving to the Tower but not what they did there or who they talked to. After a session we’d call them back a month later to see how well the short term memory translated into long term, and what kind of effect the retcon was having on their brain._

_“Altogether the study was going very well. We were learning a lot of new things and refining how to contain the public’s exposure to events Torchwood deemed too dangerous or complicated for them to know about.”_

_You pause, taking a moment to break another biro._

_“Once we knew how retcon worked we could get to the real reason for the study. Every agent knows that it’s possible to reverse the effects of retcon given proper stimuli, usually visual or aural in nature – it’s why most of us keep a handwritten diary hidden away somewhere. My department was trying to work around that, but it was proving difficult. A few subjects remembered their poem after I specifically asked them about it. Others remembered when contacted for the follow-up examination. One guy even remembered my name after he heard my accent over the phone. That’s a potentially dangerous issue for our field agents.”_

_The laughter comes easy when the agent finally gets a word in edgewise. “Thank you for saying so,” you respond, “but let’s leave my vowels out of this for the moment, shall we?”_

* * *

There’s a fresh suit laying on the bed when he gets out of the shower, with the dry cleaning tag still attached to the hanger and a note taped to the tie.

_Ianto –  
Your PDA is in good hands - don’t panic! It will be ready soon. You left these here the last time you stayed over at the Hub. I grabbed your bag out of the SUV, too.  
You always did look good in this suit.  
See you after breakfast.  
\- Jack_

The handwriting on the note is unfamiliar, as is the name of the person who wrote it (Jack?) but the clothes are in his size and of a decent quality. His muddy shoes and messenger bag are laying on the floor next to a dirty pair of trousers and a matching suit jacket, though the shirt is conspicuously absent. He transfers the contents of his pockets carefully before tucking the dirty clothes inside his bag for cleaning later. There’s just enough space in the jacket and trousers for his items to be arranged properly. 

Feeling a little ridiculous but hoping to find his errant PDA, Ianto climbs the stairs hanging from a hole in the ceiling. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he mutters and rises into an office like none other he’s ever seen before: everything’s crumbling stone and shiny steel, with large glass windows and an art deco desk. What looks like an ancient wall safe takes up most of one corner while state of the art monitors and unrecognizable equipment take up the others. There’s a piece of coral randomly taking pride of place under the desk lamp. Ianto counts no fewer than fifteen empty coffee containers, the mold inside probably growing more sentient by the second.

He sneaks a peek at the towering inbox to discover the Torchwood letterhead and improperly filed requisition forms. He’d heard rumors about the other two branches while at London, of course; that Three was led by the crazy, charismatic, coffee-and-coitus-craving Captain Harkness and that Two was, well, weird. He supposes he might be inside either one of those places if the state of this office was anything to go by.

One of the windows has spirals drawn on it in pen. They remind Ianto of the tattoo on Lisa’s hip. He desperately wants the Guide to tell him what to do. 

Looking around a final time he takes a deep breath, rubs a thumb over the words written on his hand, and leaves the office.

The room outside is just as inscrutable but on a much grander scale. Everything is shiny and new but has enough retro flair to make a steampunk burst into paroxysms. The cables and wires littering the ground resemble nothing so much as the roots of a bizarre metallic tree, the trunk of which rises straight through the center of the room and right out of the cavernous ceiling.

This Torchwood is impressive, there’s no denying that, but Ianto finds himself hesitant to actually _touch_ anything. For all its technological splendor it looks as though a tornado of takeaway boxes, paperwork, and broken machinery had torn through the atrium, leaving piles of refuse in its wake. There’s puddles of water _everywhere_ , which is a clear safety hazard given the amount of electricity that must be running through the building. There’s also an odor coming from one of the doors leading out of the room that smells distinctly of shut in animal, which Ianto really doesn’t want to think about.

There’s a woman sitting in the epicenter of the mess surrounded by computer monitors and bits of tech Ianto can’t identify. She looks up at his polite cough and he can see lines of code reflected in the lenses of her glasses. “Good morning, Ianto! Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you.” Ianto automatically returns her smile, and upon closer reflection realizes that it might actually be true. His mind feels sharp and his body relaxed, aside from the occasional twinge in his shoulder and thigh. He’d never slept particularly soundly, even before the Battle, so a full night’s rest is always something to be grateful for.

The woman takes off her glasses and brushes an artfully arranged strand of hair out of her face. She reminds him of a rather pretty librarian or scientist – lovely but distant. Ianto checks his right pocket for a note one more time, though he already knows that it’s empty. 

Without a hint it was always best to start at the beginning. He reaches out a hand to shake, polite smile still firmly in place. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I have this condition-“

She takes his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “I know. You suffer from anterograde amnesia: a condition in which the brain is unable to form new declarative memories - in your case following a severe head injury. You can still learn new skills and habits after extended repetition, but the day to day stuff is gone in about twenty minutes. My name is Toshiko Sato, by the way.” She gestures around her with her other hand. “This is Torchwood Three, Cardiff branch.” 

“Ahh.” Ianto arches a brow. “That wouldn’t happen to be _Doctor_ Sato, would it? You explain the medical jargon better than I do.”

“Strangely enough, I have been called ‘doctor’ before. It’s just that I read your case file after Canary Wharf. We helped you recover as best we could.” She shrugs away the apparent invasion of his privacy and powers down two of the three monitors at her desk. The third is streaming a complicated series of numbers that makes Ianto’s head spin. It’s either a screensaver or a Doomsday Clock, though he couldn’t say for sure which. 

Toshiko smiles reassuringly at him. “Still, that was a long time ago and you’re much better now. It’s nice to see you again, Ianto. Suzie said not to expect you to drop by the Hub anymore, since you’re checking in by phone now, but I kept expecting to find you at one of the crime scenes. They were all within a couple miles of your hotel.”

“Crime scenes?” 

“Oh, forget I said anything. I’m just worrying for no reason.” She grabs her purse and stands, earrings swinging gently back and forth. “Let’s eat! Breakfast is on Torchwood today.”

Ianto’s stomach grumbles obligingly at the thought. Toshiko laughs and threads her arm through his, ladylike and old-fashioned. “Come on. Jack left some petty cash and strict instructions to feed you up before your meeting this morning. And I’m dying for a coffee.” 

She steers him through the revolving door and up into the early morning sunshine of Cardiff in the spring.

* * *

_You hiss through your teeth as the needle cuts a little deeper than it should, blood blossoming out of the small wound and running down your leg. It’s bleeding far more than it should, which makes you a little queasy._

_Maybe you should have another drink to take the edge off. How many have you had so far? You don’t_ feel _drunk, but the truly drunk rarely do. Too much alcohol thins the blood, anyway, and that would make this even more unbearable than otherwise, wouldn’t it?_

_A tinny voice comes from the land-line receiver next to your hip on the bed. You cradle it against your shoulder and eye the mini bar. “Who is this?”_

_The man on the other end sighs and recites the proper string of numbers and letters to secure a line for Torchwood. The agent_ could _be using outdated codes to get you to talk, but really, what would be the point?_

 _You catch the writing low on your left hand out of the corner of your eye._ Good advice _, you think, and dip the bit of string into the ink one more time._

_The agent invites you to pick up the conversation where you left off, discussing your work at Torchwood One. “It was an important study. Too much retcon is just as problematic as too little. The memory loss was easier to explain if it was just one or two specific events as opposed to entire days gone missing. It’s all about establishing acceptable levels of brain damage._

_“I know. I can’t believe I said that sentence with a straight face, either.” You roll your eyes. “Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it – no smirk in sight.”_

_You’re surprised at how easy it is to joke with the agent; most days the anxiety is so thick in your throat that it’s hard to breathe. If you let your thoughts drift back to your last complete memory - and you try not to, you really do – you can actually feel the blast of heat against your skin that gave you your own unique brand of brain damage. The exploding vats of B67 had lifted you off your feet and onto Lisa’s machine, knocking it loose from the floor. The sound of your skull caving in was louder than the screaming, but only just. There was fire, and pain, and darkness…and then it fades into nothing, lost in your mind forever._

* * *

Ianto comes back to himself all at once, inhaling deeply the strange, musky scent of the bed. There’s a puddle of drool adhering his cheek to the pillowcase that he scrubs away with clumsy hands.

The room around him is…well, it’s just a room, nothing special about it. Just an anonymous room with bad lighting, a soft mattress, and a ladder hanging inexplicably from the ceiling. It feels like the first time he’s been there but he’s not sure - this could be _his_ bedroom in _his_ empty house, for all he knows. But no, there’s nothing recognizable except a messenger bag and pile of dirty clothes thrown in a corner. The nightstand’s drawers are empty except for -- 

Lube. Lots and lots of lube. And several items only recognizable from late night window-shopping in Soho. The owner of this drawer obviously has no trouble getting a phone line outside or to anywhere else, for that matter. So definitely _not_ his bedroom, then.

It’s only when the sound of running water stops that he notices the open door on his right. He can only see the edge of a sink and the toilet from where he lays on the bed, though the screech of shower curtains pulling back is unmistakable. A wave of guilt hits him and he realizes the scenario has a distinct ‘morning after’ feel to it.

Oh god. 

Ianto’s just about to make a break for the ladder when a man steps from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and nudity, toweling himself off as he goes. His complete lack of modesty (and tan lines, not that Ianto was looking) leads to the impression that discovering a strange man cowering under his blankets is not necessarily something out of the ordinary. 

It is at this point that Ianto realizes he’s not wearing any pajamas. And that there’s a lot more of him to cower than usual, certain parts of his anatomy taking a keen interest in unfolding events.

Oh, _god_!

“Morning, sunshine!” the man calls, throwing the wet towel in the corner with Ianto’s clothes. He stands there grinning, very naked hands planted on very naked hips. Ianto attempts to burrow through the mattress using only his elbows. His eyes, enormous and round, only just peek out from under the blanket. No matter how many times he blinks they are both still very, _very_ naked.

The man breaks eye contact first, great booming laughter bending him nearly double. The sound is hardly reassuring, though the longer it goes on the less anxious Ianto feels. The embarrassment slowly taking its place sees to that. 

The strange man – was that an American accent? – wipes his watery eyes and attempts to catch his breath. “I’ve got to tell you, Ianto, I’ve had some awkward mornings in my time but this rates top ten _at least_.” He chuckles again and makes his way toward the bed, reaching out a hand as if to run it through Ianto’s hair. Ianto will forever deny the flinch, but the man must have seen it anyway because he veers toward the nightstand instead. He pulls a wallet from the lube-drawer and tosses it on the bed by Ianto’s knee.

“All right, let’s run through this quickly, shall we? Your life in bullet points.” He leaves Ianto to flip through the wallet and starts to dress from a small cabinet pushed against the far wall. “You’re in Torchwood Cardiff. My name is Captain Jack Harkness. Yes, the rumors are true. Yes, even the one about the bipedal space dog, though you’ve been too polite to ask about that one yet. You were accidentally pulled into a mission and helped me detain an alien last night. There’s a scratch on your shoulder from its claws that should heal up all right so long as you don’t fiddle with it. After I patched you up we came back to my quarters and fell asleep. That’s all.” 

Captain Harkness looks up from zipping his fly, sighing and resting his hands on his hips again. His voice is a little softer but just as straightforward. “Nothing happened between us, Ianto. We just slept. Which, granted, is a first for me. Though if I were being honest, I’d say it was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks. You can relax and let go of your death grip on the sheets now.” 

He blinks, heat rising to his cheeks as he straightens from his defensive hunch under the covers. “I think it was good for me, too.” 

While perhaps not what he intended to say, Ianto’s still fairly certain it’s true. He doesn’t feel tired and his body has that lethargic weight that only really good sleep can give it. Or a really good orgasm, _followed_ by really good sleep. He eyes the man lacing his boots across the room, trousers stretched tight over the fittest arse he’s seen outside of pictures. And thoughts like that were _not_ helping him to relax. 

“Captain Harkness—“

“Please, call me Jack.”

“All right. Jack. I just have one question about all this.” Ianto sits up fully, carefully making sure the sheet stays wrapped around his waist. “If we didn’t do anything last night -“

“And we didn’t.” 

Ianto nods encouragingly. “Then why am I naked?”

Jack tugs a pair of braces over his shoulders with a wide grin. “ _Look but don’t touch._ Can you really blame me for sneaking a peak at all that Welsh manhood?” 

“My manhood appreciates the compliment.”

“I’m sure it does.” Jack’s smile turns wicked as he cocks his hip and leans against the ladder in the center of the room. “I have some things to take care of this morning. Stop at the dry cleaners to get my coat fixed, make a few phone calls, that sort of thing. Why don’t you freshen up here and then meet me in town around ten? We can discuss your future with Torchwood.”

Ianto’s future has everything to do with his past. He eyes the tattoo on his forearm, blocky letters in his own handwriting: **Lisa is dead.** And below that, in cursive: **_You can bring her back._** It’s best if Captain Jack doesn’t know about Ianto’s plans for the Doctor, so a little interference likely wouldn’t go amiss. He nods his agreement, thinking over the possibilities. “There’s an abandoned warehouse on Lobel Drive, or at least there was the last time I was in Cardiff. No one will bother us there if you want some privacy.” 

“Privacy.” Jack’s face stills, the flirtatious gleam fading from his eyes. “Why would I need privacy to meet you in a place like that?”

There’s something in his voice that makes Ianto’s heart beat faster, anxious for no good reason. He smiles again, trying to diffuse the tension that’s crept into Jack’s body. “Torchwood does call for discretion. Though according to the rumors at One that’s something this branch and its leader has a problem with, so I’m not surprised you wouldn’t recognize it.”

“What can I say? Indiscreet is my middle name. I had very progressive parents.” Jack’s voice is distant, as though he’s flirting on reflex. Then he takes a deep breath and let’s go of the mood that overtook him, physically shrugging it off his shoulders. “All right, we’ll meet at your warehouse. I’ll have Tosh enter in a reminder once she’s fixed your PDA so you won’t forget. Hell, she’s probably here and got it done already.”

“Fixed my PDA? What’s wrong with it? Is it broken?” He’s half out of the bed before he remembers he’s not wearing any clothes. Jack stops him with a hand on his shoulder, catching the sheet before it falls. Then Ianto’s embarrassed again, pulling the sheets up around his hips and trying hard to keep his breath from deserting him. He’s shaking, Christ he’s _shaking_ , and the Guide is gone. He can’t find the companions without it, can’t get Lisa back, can’t fix the timeline-- 

Jack’s weight on the bed rocks Ianto like a wave on the ocean. He rubs Ianto’s back, calmly talking him through the panic attack and whispering soothing nonsense in his ear. He tells him about the weevil from last night, and how Ianto fell on the PDA in a moment of bravery. It’s hard to focus on the words, but Ianto lets the movement of Jack’s arm shift him back and forth until he’s leaning against the other man’s shoulder. It’s easy to rest there, the muscles broad and warm under his chin. 

It’s even easier to brush his mouth against Jack’s. The kiss is soft, unhurried, and exactly what Ianto needs. Jack allows it for a moment before pulling back with a sigh. “You’ve got me all twisted up inside, Ianto Jones. No one should go through life without having this.”

He presses a kiss into Ianto’s hair and pulls away, walking toward the ladder without looking back. “Your system allows you to function, Ianto, but it doesn’t allow you to live. Only you can do that.”

Then he’s gone, leaving Ianto trembling and alone on the bed. He rubs his face and takes a few deep breaths before heading into the bathroom for a cold shower - at least until he can’t remember why the water needed to be chilly and turns the tap up to a more reasonable temperature.

* * *

_You readjust the phone on your shoulder to look at the new tattoo properly, wiping the excess ink and blood away with the dirty towel._

__

  


**IT’S NOT MURDER  
IF IT’S NECESSARY**  


_How far you’ve come that this is your life now. It feels wrong. The_ world _feels wrong._

* * *

Ianto inhales, clutching at his shoulder. “What’s going on? Where am I?”

The man in front of him drops Ianto’s suit jacket on the floor and takes a step back from the metal table Ianto is sitting on, empty hands raised high. His voice is calm, the accent different than what Ianto is used to hearing. “It’s all right. You’re in Torchwood Cardiff. There’s a note in your right trouser pocket that explains everything.”

Still clutching his injured shoulder (though the pain isn’t so bad now that the jacket’s off –removing it must have knocked something loose) Ianto reaches awkwardly across his hips and feels around with his left hand. There is a note, written in two sets of handwriting, one his own.

  


_He’s Captain Harkness, T3.  
Guide broken – DON’T PANIC – getting fixed._  


  


_You should call him Jack._  


Well. He sets the note carefully on the table next to him and contemplates the man gathering supplies on the other side of the room. So this was the fabled Jack Harkness? Ianto had expected something…well, _more_. There’s a sadness lurking in the set of his shoulders that doesn’t fit the sexual carnivore the rumor mill at One had made him out to be.

Jack turns back to Ianto and waves a packet of butterfly bandages in the air, victorious. The grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Ianto can see him trying. “Found it! Trust me to fix your sexy weevil wound now that you’ve read your little note?”

Weevil wound? The hell was he doing fighting aliens in the sewers of Cardiff? Ianto half shrugs and unbuttons his shirt sleeves. 

As Jack sets up the bandages and a small spray can on the table, Ianto looks around. He’s inside a round room, set deep under what looks to be another level of space. There are dirty tiles on the walls and empty takeout cartons everywhere (which is probably why it took Jack so long to find the bandages). If it wasn’t for the glistening steel of the medical instruments and the shiny gleam of alien tech sprinkled among the pizza boxes he’d think he was in one of the older tube stations in downtown London. That, and it smells like a morgue. Not the best place to be performing any kind of medical procedure, no matter how minor.

He’s about to tell Harkness to forget it when he notices how still the other man has gone. He glances up to find him staring at his chest, Ianto’s hands having gone about the routine of unbuttoning his shirt without his notice. Ianto has always been pale, but the dark ink of the tattoos make his skin practically glow in the overhead light. 

Oh. Ianto remembers now. He supposes the tattoos must seem strange to Jack, who hasn’t stopped staring. His mouth is even hanging open a little, in what Ianto can only assume is shock. 

Ianto hisses when his shirt tugs on the scratch – a little bit of blood had dried to the cloth – and it jolts Jack enough to break the man’s gaze. He blinks, shakes his head, and helps Ianto remove the ruined shirt more carefully. 

“Funny,” Jack says, voice a little shaky. He’s definitely not what Ianto had expected. “You never struck me as the body art type.” 

“I’m not, really. These are just…tools, that’s all.” The tattoos are concentrated on his arms - easily read when he rolls up his sleeves - but there are quite a few on his chest and stomach, as well. He runs a thumb over the mark on his right forearm. _**You can bring her back.**_

“Tools?”

Ianto inhales, letting his arms drop to his sides so Jack can properly clean his shoulder. The disinfectant spray burns like hell. “My condition affects the ability to recall new facts but procedural memory is a different part of the brain and that’s working fine. If I repeat something often enough I can condition myself into responding to it on instinct. Habit and routine allow me to function properly. I don’t remember getting the tattoos but seeing them reminds me of the reasons I did. Only important information gets a tattoo. Everything else is in the Guide.” 

He smiles at the tattoo just above his waistband, shakily printed upside down so he can read it while sitting: **Eat! Coffee is not a food group.** He always did forget to eat when stressed. A little reminder never hurt anyone.

The captain puts the last bandage in place, fingers smoothing out the plastic to make sure it stays. His hand ghosts over Ianto’s chest until it rests on the largest letters there. “ _Find the Doctor_ ,” he reads, warm breath tickling the fine hairs on Ianto’s temple. “What does this one help you remember?”

“That there’s always hope for a better world. That it doesn’t have to be like this forever.”

“Forever’s a long time, Ianto Jones.” Jack’s other hand comes to rest against Ianto’s neck, thumb rubbing the soft spot just below his ear. They’ve shifted so that he’s leaning against the table between Ianto’s legs. They’re so close Ianto can feel the heat radiating between them. There’s a smell in the air that makes his mouth water, like musk and sex and the most delicious things ever.

It’s disturbingly intimate, being petted by a strange man in the middle of an underground base. Disturbing, but inexplicably _right_. 

They meet in a hiss of breath, lips crushing against teeth. Jack’s hand is huge, tilting Ianto’s head to deepen the kiss even further. He tastes like stale coffee and electricity, the combination numbing and exhilarating at the same time. 

Ianto wants more and he’s never considered himself a passive lover. His flailing grip latches onto Jack’s braces and gives them a good tug, scooting further back on the table and pulling Jack with him. Jack gives a surprised moan but wastes no time climbing up, somehow managing to maintain the kiss despite the movement. The new position aligns their bodies _just right_ and Ianto tugs Jack even closer.

There’s panting in his ear and the world whites out for a moment. It’s been so long since he’s felt like this. So long since he had any say in what his body did or felt. So long…

The last time he felt this way had been with Lisa, the night before Canary Wharf. 

God, what was he doing?

“Jack. Jack, stop.” He has to push the man away to take a proper gulp of air. Jack just moves on to sucking at Ianto’s neck, making his toes curl and his eyes roll in their sockets. It feels so good he can’t stand it anymore. “Jack, _stop_ , please.”

Jack moans and falls heavily against Ianto, pinning him to the table. He buries his face in Ianto’s neck again, panting open-mouthed against his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m sorry.” It’s all Ianto can seem to say. His eyes are burning and he can’t catch his breath. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Jack pushes himself off the table, stumbling to lean against a scanner. His knees shake a little and he closes his eyes. “I know. I know.” He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “She’s only just gone for you, isn’t she?”

Ianto lays there, skin rapidly cooling from the loss of Jack. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing until he sees stars. He feels moisture leak from the sides anyway, and his bottom lip quivers in shame. It was all so unfair.

“Okay. Okay.” Jack seems to be struggling to gather his wits about him. Ianto can sympathize. “It’s late. Why don’t we just…call it a night, huh? You can sleep here, if you want to.”

“Here on this metal slab? Thanks for that.” The truth is Ianto has no idea where he’s been staying. All that information is in the Guide, which he can only assume is in a thousand pieces somewhere inside this mausoleum of a hidden base.

“There’s some camp beds a few levels down. They haven’t been used in awhile but they should still be-” 

“Can I stay with you?” Jack’s eyes widen absurdly, though Ianto can’t really blame him for being surprised. Turned down and propositioned in one evening - that’s got to be a record even for the Captain. Ianto would feel bad about it but there’s a panicky edge of despair creeping through his thoughts and he really doesn’t want to be alone tonight. “I know it’s not appropriate, with the whole…no sex thing happening and that you don’t know me very well, but… I just need…” 

There’s a hand on his wrist, pulling his fists away from his face. That lonely sorrow Ianto saw in Jack is back, welling up in his eyes like tears. He licks his lips; Ianto only resists the urge to kiss them by chewing on his own. “It’s all right. We’ll just – we’ll just sleep. Come on.” 

Jack doesn’t say anything as Ianto wipes his face and gathers his clothes, for which he’s pathetically grateful. He follows Jack up the stairs and into a technological wonderland of pipes and gadgets and god knows what else. He’s too tired to focus on anything but moving forward.

After some more stairs Ianto finds himself in an office – Jack’s, he’s assuming. A hidden hatch later and Ianto is inside Jack’s private rooms. They’re tiny, and so is the bed. There is no couch.

Jack steps off the ladder and slides his arms around Ianto’s waist. It’s very hard not to lean back against him but Ianto manages somehow. “I know what you said earlier about being inappropriate, but I’d really like to hold you right now. Is that okay?”

Ianto pulls away, running his fingers over the tattoos on his arms. After a moment he nods jerkily and they settle on the small bed, Jack huddled close behind him. He must surely be uncomfortable, shirt still tucked into trousers and braces snugged tight, but he makes no attempt to loosen his clothing. For all the rumors and charm, he’s really being the perfect gentleman about sharing his bed. Which, of course, makes Ianto feel even worse.

Time passes in the close dark of the room. It’s quiet times like this - the trickle of water from the level above, Jack’s slow breathing in his ear – that Ianto can feel himself drifting. Can feel the world slipping out from under his grasp. Everything seems hazy and vague, vision blurring like a heat shimmer. His memory is close now, the last he can recall with crisp precision dulled and warm with lethargy. He lets himself sink into it, floating in the abyss that is his mind. 

It’s much later when he finds himself talking to fill the void, so there’s something there besides himself. “If I close my eyes it’s like I’m still there, still inside the Tower with all that fire and pain. It’s like I’m there but I know it’s over, too. That the Cybermen are gone and the Doctor saved us. Then I blink and somewhere she’s screaming. Somewhere she’s hurt. If I could just… find her, keep her safe, everything will be alright again. But I can’t. I don’t even know how long she’s been gone. I can’t… How can I _heal_ if I can’t feel time? How can I move on if there’s nothing to move on to?” 

Someone sighs in his ear and Ianto stills, not wanting to disturb the person behind him. As nice as it feels to be held, the angles are all wrong; the arms resting against his side are too heavy, the chest not curvy enough. But if he closes his eyes and thinks of nothing at all, then maybe it could be different, maybe…

The warmth at his back is Lisa, her breath ghosting against the side of his neck. He relaxes into her embrace, letting the darkness pull him under. “Love you, baby,” he murmurs, more asleep than awake. “See you in the morning.”

* * *

_The Battle of Canary Wharf was terrible. If it wasn’t for the Doctor, you don’t know what would have happened. The end of the world, probably. You know you should be grateful for that, no matter how much it feels like the world did end and you’re stuck in some terrible purgatory. The truth of the matter is that he didn’t finish the job. The ghost shifts knocked reality out of balance, skewed the timeline, and allowed over seven hundred people to die._

_“The Doctor travels in a time machine. If we find a way to make him see this is the wrong chain of events then he can go back and make it so the Battle never happened. I’d never have gotten hurt and Lisa never would have died. Like a big retcon pill for the universe. You just need to know how much to give._

_“The hardest part is getting the Doctor’s attention. You have to create events that resonate across timelines, setting off shockwaves big enough for him to see. He has to want to come back. He has to_ want _to fix things for the better. And that’s where I come in.”_

* * *

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ianto mentions casually, “but I’m pretty sure this is illegal.”

The man pauses in pulling the bound and hooded figure out of the back of a parked SUV. “Huh. I always thought you were the type of guy who enjoyed a little bondage now and then.”

“Oh, I enjoy bondage as much as the next Welshman; it’s just that parking garages are usually not the most comfortable place in which to enjoy it.” 

He yanks a final time on the figure and props it against the back bumper, then leans against it himself, eyes raking up Ianto’s suit to settle firmly on the dip in his jaw. “I don’t know, I’ve had fun in a few backseats before. Care to try this one out?”

There’s a dry remark about gear sticks lurking just beyond his back teeth, but Ianto shakes it off; definitely not the time nor place. “Look, you can’t just blindfold someone and drag them around in your bloody great car. I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but-“

The man’s casual slouch against the SUV tightens and the teasing disappears from his voice. “Relax, Ianto. This is Torchwood business. Here.” He fishes a slim wallet out of a coat pocket and tosses it to Ianto. “And if that’s not enough to convince you, look in your right pants pocket.”

The wallet holds only a single ID granting its owner – Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Cardiff – clearance on all levels. It’s hard to fake the iridescent ink…but why would anyone want to anyway? Questionable kidnappings aside, of course. 

_Trust Torchwood_ is written on the hand holding the wallet. Odd little reminder considering the circumstances, but Ianto has learned to trust his own handwriting above all else. Harkness knows about the pocket trick so he must have spoken to Ianto at some length before now.

Stepping closer he can see there’s something off about the hooded figure – it’s curled into itself, slowly swaying back and forth. Light shines on its hands with the movement and Ianto glimpses what can only be very sharp claws. There’s a mournful moaning coming from under the hood that makes the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He tosses the wallet back to Harkness and gingerly grabs just above the creature’s elbow, waiting for it to put up a fight. The moaning gets louder at his touch, but it shuffles along next to him without resistance. This close he can make out the Torchwood logo above the breast pocket of its boiler suit. Clearly this is not the first time this particular alien has been in custody. 

Harkness takes the other arm, leading them through a fire door labeled “Employees Only” and down a dimly lit corridor. There’s a lift at the far end that requires a key, thumb scan, and numeric password to open. It’s a tight fit between the three of them and the smell coming from the alien is nigh unbearable. 

The Captain laughs at Ianto’s attempt to breathe through his mouth, or maybe just his expression. “They live in the sewer, how else would you expect them to smell? You get used to it after a while.”

“Sorry,” Ianto gasps, attempting to speak without actually inhaling first. “It’s my first alien. Not much call for them in the research department.”

“What were you researching at One that _wasn’t_ alien?” 

“Retcon,” he answers bluntly. It’s enough to keep Harkness quiet when the lift doors open to another shadowy corridor that still manages to be brighter than the previous one. Ianto’s starting to think Captain Jack is having him on; surely Torchwood Three didn’t need this much ambiance? There had to be a more convenient entrance for this sort of thing. _The white zone is for loading and unloading smelly aliens only. All other aliens will be towed at the home planet’s expense._

When Harkness elbows a button at the end of the hall, loud klaxons fill the air and for a moment it’s all Ianto can do to keep the growling alien from tearing out his larynx. “ _Clearly_ there’s got to be a better way,” he grits out. Harkness tugs sharply on the hood around the alien’s head and sprays it with some kind of aerosol that drops the creature with a low snarl. Ianto takes a moment to adjust the lay of his suit, left shoulder sore from the struggle. He freezes in the motion of shooting his cuffs when he notices that part of the wall has rolled away. 

“Of course there’s a better way,” Harkness says, rubbing a little at the tense muscles of Ianto’s shoulder. He would be offended by the presumptuousness of the gesture if it didn’t feel so nice. “But then you’d have missed the grand entrance. Welcome to the Hub, Ianto Jones.”

The room is huge, cavernous, a backwards conglomeration of eras cobbled together by many different hands. There’s graffiti along one wall, a huge Welsh dragon opposite what looks like an ancient Tube station. Everything gleams with a faint sheen of moisture, due in part to the water trickling down the metal sculpture in the center and collecting in a pool below their feet. The smell of mildew and ozone hangs in the air. Garbage and takeaway boxes litter every surface.

The man has a bloody Batcave. No wonder Harkness was so cocky.

There’s a gleam in the Harkness’ eye, as if he’s waiting for Ianto to be impressed. Ianto tries very hard not to be, just for the sake of being contrary. “So just like that I’m in your base. I thought Torchwood was a _secret_ organization?”

Harkness waves it off. “You’ve been here before. And it’s not like you’d tell anyone.”

“You’re right. Who’d believe an amnesiac with brain damage that there’s a secret base under Cardiff full of alien-hunting men in period costume?”

“I’m sure there’s someone. The fact that you won’t remember it tomorrow is a bonus, since retcon doesn’t work on you anymore.” 

“And you’ve discovered that how?”

“You don’t want to know. Come on, help me get her secure and I’ll give you a tour." 

Between them they manage to haul the unconscious alien through the main atrium and down a hallway that smells distinctly of shut-in animal, which Ianto would really rather not contemplate at this point in time. He wonders how many people Harkness has on his staff. T3 had been running on a skeleton crew before Canary Wharf; by the looks of things very little has changed. 

“I could do this, you know. I could help you.”

“We’ve been through this, Ianto. It’s not practical or safe to have someone with your condition loose in the Hub. There’s too many variables.”

Ianto drops his end of the alien and puts his hands on his hips. “We’ve _not_ been through this because this is the first time I’ve brought it up. I’m not some invalid, Harkness.”

The Captain’s struggling to hold on to the creature, falling against the wall for support. “So not the time, Ianto. Little help here? I think she’s waking up.”

“I am _not_ incapable, Jack. You obviously need more help than what you’ve got.”

_“Ianto!”_

He grudgingly picks up the alien’s smelly feet again. “Look, all I want is to be useful. I have some long-term projects going on but until they come to fruition I’m at a loose end. Everyone needs a purpose, Jack - I mean, what do you expect me to do all day? Sit around and knit?”

Harkness’ eyes gleam madly in the fluorescent light. “You can knit? That’s kind of sexy.”

“So not the time, Jack.” They eventually come into a long, equally smelly corridor with cells on either side. They deposit the moaning creature on the floor of one with not a moment to spare, quickly leaving it to recover on its own. 

While Harkness secures the door, Ianto rubs his shoulder carefully, the pain making him wince. It was barely noticeable on the way to the cells but carrying the alien down that last stretch of hallway must have knocked something loose. Harkness turns to find him surreptitiously trying to peek under his jacket. 

“All right, I saw that. No more complaints, I’m taking you to Medical and looking at that scratch. Weevils live in the _sewer_ \- God knows what they have under their claws.”

Ianto pales at the thought. “I’m inclined to agree with you. All right, just…all right.” 

It’s a long way to Torchwood’s medical bay, which is literally a hole in the ground. Ianto hops up onto the only flat surface he can find and starts to take his jacket off…with rather terrible results. Harkness helps him with the sleeve but the damage has already been done. 

He inhales, clutching in pain at his shoulder. “What’s going on? Where am I?”

* * *

_“I shouldn’t say anything more. There’s no way to prove you are who you say you are.” You really shouldn’t have picked up the phone when it rang – there’s no way to know if the person on the other end is lying or not._

_Don’t answer the phone. You’ll have to write that down._

_Tucking the headset between your shoulder and neck, you carefully stretch out your leg. The new tattoo is sore, but not too bad. You wrap all the rubbish carefully in the ruined towel and throw it away._

_“I mean, I trust Torchwood, of course I do. My information was copied directly out of the archives by an inside source. One of the agents was sympathetic to my cause and helped me out, gave me the search program to run. They helped me decide what to do. I suppose it’s useless to worry; you have to know all this already. If you aren’t my contact then how would you even know to call me here?”_

_There’s a pause on the other end, silence stretching into seconds. The back of your neck prickles with foreboding. “Hello? Are you still there? I-”_

_The agent interrupts you, speaking quietly and a little out of breath. What he says doesn’t make any sense._

_“Suzie gave it to you? I don’t know any Suzie. Why would she give you my number?”_

_You rush over to your jacket, yanking the Guide from the inner pocket. A quick file search for ‘Suzie’ comes up negative; so does ‘Susan’, ‘Suzanne’, and anything starting with the letters SUZ. The agent is obviously lying, but why? Jesus, who have you been talking to all this time if not your primary contact?_

_You can hear them breathing over the phone; the rasping so remarkably close they may as well be in the same room. “Who is this? What do you want?”_

_Silence on the other end of the line. “Hello? Answer me, damn it! Who is this?”_

_More silence…and then the Guide vibrates in your hand, alarm startling in the empty room. The search icon is blinking._

* * *

Ianto twists in the seat to get a better look at his shoulder without taking off his seatbelt or his suit jacket. There’s a little bit of blood on his shirt but it doesn’t hurt all that badly. He loosens his tie and undoes the first few buttons, peeling his collar away to see the wound more closely.

The driver glances away from the road, eyes zeroing in on the shadow of Ianto’s clavicle. “Normally I don’t mind when a handsome man undresses next to me but this time I - Hey. You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just a scratch, that’s all.”

“How bad?”

Ianto straightens his clothes as best he can. The man next to him looks worried. “It’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse, believe me.”

“Still, best let me take a look at that when we get to the Hub. Weevils live in the sewers; a little scratch can get infected easily.”

Ianto feels himself go pale. “This is a _weevil_ scratch? Those things that live under the streets of Cardiff?”

“Forgotten your daring rescue already, huh? That was fast.”

“Yup. Sorry. I have this condition. It’s like short term memory loss, only it’s permanent. The doctors say I have a threshold of about twenty minutes or so before events start to fade. Nothing personal, I just…can’t help it.” There’s a twitch in the other man’s jaw; Ianto suspects he’s trying not to smile. “I’ve told you this before, haven’t I?” 

The man grins, wide and flirtatious. “Once or twice. I used to consider myself unforgettable until you came along.”

“Sorry to disappoint. At least your jokes are still funny no matter how many times you tell them.”

“This is true.” He takes one hand off the wheel for Ianto to shake. The SUV doesn’t wobble off its course, but the trees whizzing by in the darkness beyond the windscreen are enough to make Ianto glad for the seat belt. “Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Three. That’s the third time I’ve introduced myself to you tonight, Ianto. You need to get some kind of note system or something.” 

“As a matter of fact…” Ianto pulls the Guide from his inner jacket pocket only to find the screen cracked and empty. _Fuck_. He thumbs the power button twice, hoping, and nothing. _Oh, fuck._

Jack glances quickly between Ianto and the road, alarmed by his rapid breathing. He squeezes Ianto’s knee with a huge hand; Ianto’s too distracted to worry about how steady the driving is this time. “Hey hey, take it easy. What’s wrong?”

“My PDA is broken. I can’t turn it on and I don’t know how to fix it. Jack, this is important! I need this to be working all the time. What am I going to do?”

“I have a technician on staff that makes Q look like a toddler with tinker toys. I’m sure she’ll be able to fix it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ll put it on her desk with a note to work on it posthaste. She’s been coming in early recently so it should be ready by breakfast tomorrow.” 

They drive in silence for a few streets, Ianto cradling the PDA and running his thumb over the spiderweb of cracks across the screen. It doesn’t bear thinking about what will happen if he can’t use the files on the Guide.

He inhales deeply, changing the subject as quick as he can. “So I got this scratch fighting a weevil? You know, I grew up in Cardiff and I never saw one until Dave Haverson showed me a file in London. I almost didn’t believe him, but Dave was part of the team researching them up on Level Nine. He theorized that they’re indigenous to England but were displaced underground when the land was settled. No one could convince him otherwise. He even dressed up like a weevil at the Halloween party, boiler suit and all.”

Jack turns the wheel sharply, beeping at an old woman crossing the street and Ianto swears he hears _Bloody Torchwood!_ as they speed around her. Jack either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care, taking another corner just as fast as the first. “Dave sounds like a fun guy. Think he’d be interested in looking at this beauty when we’re done with her?”

“Probably not. Level Nine was overrun by Daleks during the invasion. I assume he was exterminated with everyone else.”

It’s quiet in the cab for a while. Jack actually stops at a red light, turning a little in his seat. “I’m sorry, Ianto. For upsetting you earlier.”

“I’m not upset. It’s just hard sometimes, not knowing what happened to my friends. I miss them.”

“You could look them up. Maybe one or two survived.”

He shrugs, movement pulling at the scratch. “The odds are against it. Besides, what would be the point? I’ll forget I did in twenty minutes and feel depressed for no reason. It’d just be a pain in the arse.” 

The light turns green and Jack tightens his grip on the wheel. The muscles in his jaw work for a moment before he speaks. “I used to envy you, Ianto. Did you know that? No matter what happens you always get a fresh start. All that history gone in a moment. All that pain.”

Ianto turns the Guide in his hands. “I wish it were that simple, Jack. History is all I have. Never knowing what’s going to happen from one minute to the next; never being able to relax. It’s like being lost in the dark.” 

The pain is brilliant for a moment, sparking behind his eyes and traveling down into his chest. The past was all he _had_ ; the present barely existed, and the future? The future was a joke. Everything could end tomorrow and Ianto wouldn’t know the difference. The world was so fucked up.

He takes a deep breath and thinks about the Doctor. 

_Soon. He’d find a companion soon._

He strokes the cracked screen a final time and hands it over to Jack, reluctantly. “Are you sure your technician can fix my Guide?”

“Tosh has fixed worse than this. She once widdled together a Carbonian matter modulator with a soldering iron, bungee cord, two sparkplugs, and an old calculator. She’s the best I’ve ever seen.”

“No offense, Jack, but I need this machine to work. It’s important.”

“I understand, Ianto. Try putting your faith outside yourself once in awhile.” 

“Not happening. It’s hard to trust the world when I don’t have a place in it.” 

He reaches across the gear stick to tap Ianto on the wrist. “Your tattoo says differently.”

It does, in fact, tell Ianto to _Trust Torchwood_. He supposes in Cardiff that means Jack. He clears his throat, staring out the windscreen at the passing dark. “I trust myself. I only rely on Torchwood because I told myself I can. That’s my handwriting.”

Jack’s quiet again, driving in circles for all Ianto recognizes the streets outside. _Put some faith outside yourself._

Ruffling through his jacket reveals a small notepad and pen in the left side pocket, just as he knew it would. “Each pocket I have means something different thing. The inside jacket pocket is for the PDA. I input everything in there, from the people I meet to what I had for breakfast. When there’s no time for that or there’s something I need to attend to right away I put a note in my right trouser pocket.” He scribbles down a quick reminder and hands the paper to Jack, who smiles.

  


_He’s Captain Harkness, T3.  
Guide broken – DON’T PANIC – getting fixed._  


“You forgot one thing.” Jack slows the SUV to a stop outside a parking garage and steals Ianto’s pen. His handwriting is smaller than Ianto’s, a little more neat.

  
_You should call him Jack._  


Ianto smiles back and tucks the paper in his trouser pocket. “There. Now there won’t be any confusion.”

Jack laughs. “Yeah, until you take off your pants.”

“Mm. And are you so certain you can get my _pants_ off, Captain?”

He growls, smile crooking up into a smirk. “Oh, I love a good challenge.”

* * *

_A tutorial begins automatically when you open the program, explaining the altered blood cells it’s programmed to search for and how Torchwood modified the PDA to scan every human within an expanding radius for them. You skip through it as quickly as possible, hands shaking, and the results of the latest search spill onto the screen. It’s positive._

_There’s a companion nearby. The odds of actually finding one… The address on the Guide is familiar, an out of the way spot no one would think to look. It’s perfect, it’s all so perfect._

_Your hand skirts the edge of the new tattoo on your thigh. It’s time._

_Someone is talking in your ear, asking what’s wrong. “I’m sorry,” you tell them politely. “I’ll have to call you back.”_

* * *

Ianto’s just beaten his high score when he hears it: a growling howl, followed by a crash.

The world outside the SUV is dark and motionless; he can’t see two feet beyond the glow of the Guide. He holds the screen against his chest and rolls down the window. Silence, though he can just make out a tiny copse of trees in the distance. The yard has that regimented planned look of all urban parks and he can only assume he’s in a city somewhere; maybe it’s just-

There’s a shout from the trees and another low growl. 

Definitely _not_ an average mugging, then. 

He looks about the cab of the SUV for a weapon of some kind only to come up short. Duct tape and a ham radio? Sure. Fancy computer stations? Oh, yeah. Something actually useful? Unfortunately not. There _is_ a tyre iron in the glove box that will do in a pinch, though.

Ianto tucks the Guide into his jacket pocket and opens the car door experimentally. Nothing ambushes him from either side - and really, what were the chances of Velociraptors in Europe? He’s seen too many films. 

His shoes sink into the damp earth of the lawn, masking his approach. There’s a man on the ground behind the trees and another figure leaning over him, head large and misshapen, moonlight gleaming off its fangs. It looks… well, it looks a little like the weevil Dave showed him in London, though somewhat uglier than the photos.

Ianto tightens his grip on the tyre iron and creeps slowly forward. The weevil doesn’t notice, crouched low over its kill. Ianto doesn’t look too closely, but the ground is darker around the body on the grass and he can only assume the worst. He takes a deep breath and swings the iron, rounders-style, right at the monster’s head.

It’s the perfect ambush…except the corpse sits up with a gasping shout and knocks the weevil back a step, the iron glancing off its shoulder instead of its skull. Ianto can only assume this is karma for kicking puppies in a former life or something equally horrible.

The weevil turns and slaps the tyre iron right out of his hands, roaring mightily. Its breath is rancid and Ianto ducks both from it and a second swipe of claws. There aren’t any good-sized branches or rocks on the ground (damn park service) so he punches it in the ribs. Or tries to – the body shot has no effect other than to make his knuckles sore. A kick to the knee scuffs his shoe. He’s not even sure if weevils _have_ genitalia, so that option’s out; besides, he really doesn’t want to make it any madder than he already has.

He’s debating the merits of running back to the SUV when the corpse, now looking much more spry, jumps on the weevil’s back. “Get the can!”

“The what?”

“The can!” The weevil’s shoulders are too wide to reach behind itself and claw the nuisance off its back, but that doesn’t mean it’s not trying. The man looks a little nauseous from the spinning. “The aerosol can! It rolled over to the left! Spray it in the face!”

Ianto runs to the left and sure enough, nestled in a pile of twigs and lawn clippings is a small black spray can. He dodges as close to the furious weevil as he can, ducking the flailing claws and depressing the nozzle right in the alien’s eyes. He holds it down, emptying what surely must be the entire can into its nasal cavity. After a long moment the weevil lets out a mournful wail and falls –

\- right onto Ianto, taking the once-corpse for the ride. The three fall with a mighty _oof_.

He lays there, trying to breathe through the smell without breaking any ribs from the weight of the creature, and the absurdity of the situation comes upon him. There’s a weevil snoring on his chest in the middle of Cardiff because Ianto _maced it in the face_. Ianto. In its face. And he actually _enjoyed_ it.

There’s a matching laughter above him as the man-corpse helpfully removes his portion of the weight and pushes the behemoth off his rescuer. He offers Ianto a hand, the disorienting sensation of being yanked back to his feet only adding to Ianto’s hilarity. He takes a step forward to balance himself and the two men end up standing very close to one another, chests touching with each gulp of air. Ianto loosens his grip but the stranger doesn’t let go.

Ianto’s Maiden Fair really is attractive in a retro movie sort of way. Gorgeous smile, beautiful eyes, perfectly tousled hair. He smells infinitely better than the body on the ground, like musk and sex and the most delicious things ever. Ianto licks his lips and leans just a little closer, breathing deeply.

Their noses brush. The man’s eyelids flutter…and he takes a step back, finally releasing Ianto’s wrist. He walks over to contemplate the unconscious weevil. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”

“Yes, because you were obviously handling things so well on your own.”

He looks up, affronted. “My gun seems to be missing. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

A _gun_ certainly would have been handy five minutes ago. “Nope. I don’t think they let people like me carry guns.”

“I certainly hope not. Remind me to frisk you later.”

“Promises, promises.” 

The man’s eyebrow lifts, the corner of his mouth slowly curling into a smirk. Ianto joins him next to the creature. If he breathes through his mouth the smell isn’t so bad. “I’m assuming this is an alien hell-bent on the destruction of the human race?”

“Got it in one.”

“Mm. A _heavy_ alien.”

“Uh…” They turn as one to stare at the distance between the weevil and the SUV. It seems a lot farther than it did a few moments ago.

“Still wishing I stayed in the car?” Ianto loosens his tie, surprised it remained snug during the fight with the weevil. “All right then. Heads or tails?”

Ianto winds up carrying the heavier shoulders, as the stranger still looks a little pale from his brush with near-death. It’s hard work, the adrenaline slowly disappearing from his body and leaving his muscles aching with the weight. He’s pretty sure there’s something seriously wrong with his shoulder but can’t very well drop his end of the weevil to check. The field teams never mentioned this part of the job during lunch break in the cafeteria. 

Still, it could have been worse. He eyes the man struggling with the alien’s legs. “I thought this thing had killed you at first. You okay?”

“Just knocked the wind out of me, that’s all.” They navigate over a small hill and reach the SUV, dropping the weevil and stretching out their backs. The man already looks a little better; there’s color in his cheeks and his eyes aren’t so sunken. 

Ianto raises his hand, a little embarrassed over how out of breath he is. “I’m Ianto Jones, by the way. Not sure if we’ve been introduced.”

“Couple of times, yeah. Jack Harkness. Look me up in your thingy while I clear out the back. There’s only so many times I can introduce myself to you in a day.”

Ianto doesn’t bother getting out the Guide; _TORCHWOOD_ is written along the side of the SUV, clearly visible in a patch of moonlight - and who else _but_ Torchwood would be hunting weevils in the middle of the night? Jack Harkness, though… Ianto’s heard of him. Harkness was a favorite of the London rumor mill. He wonders if any of the stories are true. 

_The one about his arse certainly seems to be_ , Ianto thinks, enjoying the view as Jack climbs into the back of the SUV. 

“See something you like?” Jack calls from the depths, the sounds of heavy boxes being pushed around. Ianto is immediately guilty at having been caught looking, hopeful that the darkness is enough to cover his blush. 

He thinks about what Lisa would have to say about Ianto checking out some strange man in the woods, then smiles at the obvious answer. “ _Look but don’t touch_. I’m kind of…with someone.”

There’s a pause, something metallic catching the light inside the car. Ianto can’t see anything from where he’s standing but a moment later there’s the snap of a lid coming down. The boxes move again and Jack comes crawling out of the SUV, brushing his hands together and eyeing Ianto nastily. “And here I thought Lisa was dead. Doesn’t that free you up to play the field?”

Ianto’s breath catches, choked by the cruelty of the man he rescued. “London’s rumors never said anything about you being a heartless bastard. I see they left the important parts out.” 

Jack just stares at him, eyes cold. Ianto straightens his shoulders, fists and teeth clenching. “Yes, the woman I love is dead, Captain. Thank you for reminding me. That doesn’t mean I’ve given up hope of ever seeing her again or that her memory means nothing to me. I’m sure a man like you has no idea what that even means. You’ve never loved anyone your whole life.”

He storms off, circling the front of the SUV and slamming the passenger door behind him. Not the best exit strategy, seeing how Jack has the keys, but he’ll be damned if he helps the bastard anymore. Let him figure out how to get the weevil secure in the boot without Ianto.

A few minutes of grunting and rocking the car later, a winded Jack returns to the cab. He looks at Ianto, who refuses to meet his gaze, and turns the ignition key without saying a word. As they drive out of the park and onto the streets of Cardiff, Ianto refuses to consider the idea that he has no control over where Jack is taking them  
His shoulder’s not as sore now but he should still make sure it’s not too serious. He doesn’t want to give Jack any more ammunition, so he twists in the seat to get a better look at it without taking off his seat belt or his suit jacket.

* * *

_It’s hard to dress properly with your hands shaking like they are but you can’t very well go looking for the companion in your underwear. If you wait too long then he’ll leave the location and you’ll have to track him down again. There’s a wrinkled suit thrown haphazardly over a chair that will have to do. Hopefully it was due to be hung up and not dry-cleaned._

_In your rush to put on trousers you nearly miss the crinkle of paper in the right pocket. It’s an old post-it note, crumpled into a ball._

CHANGE TATTOO ON WRIST  
 **DON’T** trust Torchwood

 _There’s more writing on the back:_ T3 can change Guide remotely. Lied to you. Don’t trust Guide - read diary for info!

_The note doesn’t make any sense. You haven’t kept a diary since before the Battle. Have you?_

* * *

“Come on. There’s a weevil loose in Bute Park and I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Ianto shrugs the stranger off, turning back to the table. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“For fuck’s sake Ianto, I don’t have time for this.” He grabs Ianto again, twisting him around until he can reach into his inner jacket pocket. The PDA almost disappears inside his huge hand but Ianto sees it go.

“Give me back the Guide! Give it!” The arsehole dodges his punches easily, playing keep-away from Ianto like he’s a child. Ianto rugby tackles him, falling in a tangle of limbs and curses onto the linoleum. 

“You’ll get it back once we’re in the car.” Ianto gets a good elbow in. “ _Below the belt! That’s cheating!_ ”

He’s just gotten the man’s wrist in his teeth when someone drags them off each other. One of the men from a few tables away has a death grip on Ianto’s waist and another hauls the stranger to his feet. There’s a very irate waitress fuming off to the side. “Take it outside, Jack! Christ, what’s gotten into the two of you?”

The man – Jack, apparently – waves the PDA teasingly. “We were just leaving. Weren’t we, Ianto?”

Ianto glares but grabs his messenger bag and follows him outside. The cool air feels good on his flushed face so he takes a moment to adjust the lay of his suit, breathing deeply to calm down. 

Jack’s waiting by a black monstrosity of a car. He glares pointedly at Ianto. “Keys?”

Ianto feels around in his left trouser pocket – sure enough, there’s a set of keys with a security alarm button that matches the color of the SUV. He waves them at Jack, teasingly.

Jack just stares back dully. Ianto rolls his eyes and unlocks the doors with the button, unsurprised when Jack takes the driver’s side. Going around the car he sees TORCHWOOD embossed on the side. _So much for secrecy_. He slides into the passenger seat and does up the seat belt, eyeing the man next to him.

Jack sighs and hands over the Guide. Ianto grins and throws the keys carelessly in his direction, thumbing the screen off sleep mode. Jack growls but digs the ring from between the seats and starts the engine.

Ianto reacquaints himself with his baby, checking to make sure no damage was done in the scuffle. He breathes a sigh of relief; everything looks fine. He minimizes the search program to run in the background and looks for information on the arsehole that tried to steal his PDA and is currently driving them who-knows-where. There’s only one “Jack” listed in his private gallery and that’s the leader of Torchwood Three, of all the random people. The picture in the file matches the driver, except he’s grinning like a movie star for the camera and nothing but grim seriousness behind the wheel. The caption under the picture is strange: _CPT Jack Harkness, leader T3 Cardiff - Don’t believe his lies._

He snorts. That much was obvious.

They drive on in tense silence, Jack gripping the wheel with both hands and Ianto studying the files on his PDA. Two red lights and an ignored Give Way sign later is apparently all the quiet Jack can stand. Trying to sound casual (but failing tremendously) he leans forward to tap the screen of the PDA.

“So why do you call that thing The Guide, anyway? You never said.” 

Ianto rolls his eyes. “Have you ever asked? Watch the road.” 

Jack slumps back against his seat, blithely unaware that signaling was customary before changing lanes. Ianto watches him drive for a moment before turning back to archived files. “Lisa liked Douglas Adams.”

Jack frowns but doesn’t respond. Ianto can only assume he doesn’t get the reference. Illiterate American. “He wrote _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy._ You know. 'Always know where your towel is; never let a Vogon read you poetry; the ultimate answer is 42'?” He sighs. “I told her it was stupid to read science fiction about aliens when we worked at an agency responsible for monitoring alien life in Britain, but she wouldn’t listen. She said it was important to remember that not everything was as it seemed. That things could be absurd and brilliant at the same time.”

He runs his fingers over the screen one more time. _Don’t panic._ Most days it was hard to believe she was right about the world, that the beautiful outweighed the terrible. The Guide helped remind him of her. Of his purpose. 

“That’s true about the poetry, you know,” Jack offers. Ianto ignores him.

Bute Park isn’t so far away from the restaurant that the rest of the drive is unbearable. Ianto just submerges himself in thoughts of Lisa until Jack stops the car. When he glances up he sees that they’re parked on the lawn itself, the moon popping in and out of the clouds lending the public space an eerie atmosphere.

Jack leans over the gear stick to scrounge in the glove box, eventually coming up with some mace and industrial twisty ties. His knuckles graze Ianto’s thighs when he closes the hatch, causing them both to jump.

“What are you doing?” 

“Hunting aliens.” Either Jack really is as dense as Ianto thought or he’s deliberately misunderstanding the question. He shoves the twisty ties into his trouser pocket, bulging out the cotton. Ianto can’t help but think a shoulder bag would be better suited, or at least a coat with big pockets. “You stay here. I don’t want you wandering around in the dark.”

“I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself, thank you. If this alien’s so tough then shouldn’t you be armed with more than plastic and pepper spray?”

Jack smirks. “Weevils aren’t so bad. They’ve a nasty disposition and a vicious right hook, but if you find one the spray still works on then they’re controllable. To a point. If all else fails you can always shoot them.”

The smile melts from his face when Ianto doesn’t respond. He pokes him in the shoulder to get his attention again. “I mean it. _Stay. Here._ We need to talk when I get back.” 

He slams the car door when he leaves, likely alerting the very alien he’s searching for to his presence. Ianto’s eyes are in danger of rolling right out of his head.

After a moment he sighs and settles in for the long haul. He checks a few files on his PDA, brings up the search program and watches the progress bar run. No mutated blood cells in the area. No time travelers. No companions. 

What the hell was he doing wasting time sitting in the middle of Bute Park waiting for a crazy Torchwood Captain in period costume to finish fighting aliens so that they could chat about something he probably doesn’t want to talk about in the first place? Surely he had better things to do.

He contemplates stealing the car for a moment, but damn if Jack didn’t take the keys. He could just get out and walk away: leave Torchwood and all this madness behind. But the search program’s still running, parameters expanding with every sweep. There are no resources available to him, other than this.

The tattoo on his wrist is visible in the light of the Guide’s screen. _Trust Torchwood._

He sighs and opens Solitaire. Ianto’s just beaten his high score when he hears a commotion in the trees.

* * *

_You find the book at the bottom of the messenger bag, under some dirty laundry. The first entry is dated a few weeks after the Battle and doesn’t make any sense, talking about prisons and morphine and someone named Jack. You must have still been bleary from the head wound, therapists and doctors suggesting the diary would be good for arranging your thoughts._

_There are bright pink post-it notes sticking out from the pages with the words “READ ME” along the edge. The first bookmarks an entry with a single name:_ Nathaniel Cleer. _Below it you’ve written,_ “Companion Number One”.

 _Wait. You found one? You actually_ found _a companion? Why didn’t you remember that?_

 _The second note is just a few pages beyond the first. Another name. Another_ “Companion Number One”. _There is no date, but the writing is your own._

 _The third page is filled with text. Certain passages have been circled in red ink:_ “The Guide led me to a man in a pub. Just some man. I talked to him first. He said he didn’t know anything about the Doctor but he did ask how Suzie was doing. Who’s Suzie? I don’t understand - the man wasn’t a companion, why would he have mutated blood cells? I don’t want to hurt anyone but I can’t let him get away.” __

_The diary falls open to the fourth bookmark without you having to stop it, the pages stuck together and brown spots smearing the ink. You can’t actually read any of the words, the scribbles warped and twisted in on themselves._

_You almost don’t want to see the last marked entry, but you can’t really help yourself. You flip to the back of the book, hands shaking._

_“Jesus!”_

_There’s a photograph taped to the page; a Polaroid of a dead body, knife sticking grotesquely out of its chest. The words below it are eerily clear compared to the previous entry, like they were drafted with a ruler._ “I don’t think the Doctor is coming. I don’t think this world can be saved. I think this is hell.” _And scrawled below, in different colored ink, are the words_ “I’m so sorry.”

 _There’s another post-it stuck over the corner of the photo, text written in the same ink as the circled passages earlier in the diary:_ “I’ve labeled a copy of this picture as COMP4 on the desktop of the PDA. If Torchwood is altering the Guide it will not be there when next I read this.” 

_You grab the Guide from the bed, mashing the keys and waking up the screen. It tells you not to panic, in large friendly letters, but there is no COMP4 on the desktop. No trace of Nathaniel Cleer or any of the other names. No proof that you aren’t a murderer._

_You panic. It passes after a moment, leaving you sweating and heaving into the toilet bowl. The porcelain is cool on your cheek so you lay there, staring at the Guide still clutched in your hand. The search program icon is blinking in the corner of the screen, repeating the address of the found companion._

_Back in the bedroom you take a fresh piece of paper from the pad, choosing your words carefully:_ “Things are not what they seem. Do not trust Torchwood. There is no companion.” 

_You put the note in your right trouser pocket, gather your things into the messenger bag, and call for a taxi. It’s time to get some answers._

* * *

Ianto’s just turned left when the Guide vibrates in his pocket, the pleasant _ding_ alerting him to an appointment alarm. Carefully maneuvering the SUV through traffic with one hand and opening the calendar application with the other, he’s pleased to see it’s time for dinner. While he’s not terribly hungry it was always a good idea to get a meal in when possible – he has the unfortunate habit of not eating when stressed.

 _Coffee is not a food group_ , he thinks, and parks at the first restaurant he sees – a rundown pub by the quay, a local favorite from the looks of the crowd outside the door. He makes his way to the only open table in the back, far away from the entrance. A waitress comes over, smiling when she sees him.

“Ianto! You haven’t been by in ages. Jack not with you tonight?” 

_Who’s Jack?_ Ianto is fairly certain he’s never seen the girl before and the pub is completely unfamiliar. Still, she’s looking at him expectantly, eyes twinkling from the neon sign on the wall behind her. He shakes his head, smiling pleasantly but unable to meet her gaze for very long. 

She winks at him. “That’s a shame. You two are always good for business; get’s the singles all a flutter. Shall I bring you your usual, then?” 

He nods again and she’s off with a flip of her ponytail, disappearing into the crowd. Ianto pulls the Guide out of his pocket and runs a search. No note of the pub or the waitress, and the only ‘Jack’ is Captain Jack Harkness, leader of Torchwood Cardiff. 

“Don’t believe his lies,” he reads aloud. Interesting.

His ‘usual’ turns out to be fish and chips, the staple of every Welshman’s diet and surprisingly delicious for a hole-in-the-wall tavern. The food hits his belly with the warm satisfaction of a job well done and he tucks in greedily, soaking everything in just the right amount of vinegar. Once he’s finished (and has wiped the grease from his fingers) he adds an entry to the Guide recommending the pub for future meals.

He’s halfway through a second pint when a man in period military clothing drops heavily into the seat across from him. There’s a hardness to his face that has Ianto immediately on edge. “Hiya, Yan. Surprised to see me?”

“That’s one way to put it. And don’t call me Yan. My girlfriend called me that.”

“How cute.”

“I hated it. If I wouldn’t let _her_ get away with it then I’m certainly not going to let you.” _Whoever you are._

The man grins, wide and gleaming in the dark of the pub. “Sorry. I would have been here sooner but I had to walk back to the Hub for a change of clothes. And the tracker for the SUV, of course. That was a nice touch.”

Ianto has no idea what the man’s talking about but feels distinctly uncomfortable about the way he’s looking at him. It’s an intense stare, scratching away the layers of Ianto’s calm to pick at the frayed nerves just under his skin. It makes Ianto feel like he’s done something wrong.

The waitress slides up to the table, setting a pint of water in front of the stranger. She seems happily surprised to see him. “Heya, Jack! I thought you finally let this one slip your grip.” She bumps his shoulder with her hip, winking at Ianto again. “Was thinking about snatching him up for myself. Can I get you anything? Your usual?”

“Nothing for me tonight, Claire. Thank you.” He doesn’t look up at her flirtation, just continues to stare at Ianto. She shrugs and takes away Ianto’s empty plate.

He knows the man now, thanks to Claire The Waitress and a handy entry in his Guide. But what was he doing meeting with _the_ Captain Jack in a nowhere pub often enough to be recognized by the staff?

Ianto tries to mask the confusion from his face, but either he’s slipping or Jack knows him better than he should. He nods in the direction of the waitress. “You know who she is?”

Ianto shakes his head. 

“What about me? Do you remember me?” 

He hesitates then shakes his head again. “I’m sorry. I have this condition-“ 

“I know all about your condition, Ianto! Jesus Christ.” He bends over the table, resting his head in his hands. 

Ianto toys with his beer, wiping a finger through the condensation on the glass. He has no point of reference for what’s bothering Jack, and no desire to comfort him. For all he knows this could be an elaborate ruse to gain his trust. After all, the Guide did tell him not to believe his lies. 

But, then again, there’s a tattoo on the hand holding the glass telling him to _Trust Torchwood_. The same Torchwood that nurtured the ghost shifts and allowed the destruction of Canary Wharf. The same Torchwood that caused Lisa to suffer and die. It was all very confusing.

Jack runs his hands through his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp and pulling at the strands until they stick straight up. “I don’t know what to do here, Ianto. You were doing so well that when you stopped coming around I didn’t think anything of it and now… five people are dead.” He snorts, humorlessly. “Well, technically six.”

He certainly has Ianto’s full attention now. “What are you talking about? Who’s dead?”

Jack drops his hands to the table, spilling some of the water from his glass. “This is my fault. When I gave you the assignment to track down the Doctor I never thought it would end like this. You were just supposed to find a pattern, figure out when he’d be likely to show. Find a way I could contact him. Not-”

“A way _you_ could contact him? What the hell are you talking about, Jack? How do you know the Doctor?” There were rumors at London about Captain Jack, mostly of the adult variety. But there were a few researchers that suspected Jack of being older than he looked, maybe even a time-traveler himself. If he knew the Doctor…

“It doesn’t matter now.” Jack looks more tired than when he sat down, the anger draining away to leave his eyes empty. Determined, but empty. “I don’t believe you’re capable of doing something like this, not without someone else pushing you into it. We need to find out how you got to this point and where the hell you got that knife.”

 _What knife?_ This discussion is seriously starting to freak Ianto out. He puts on a brave face, hoping to catch the man in a bluff or intimidate him enough so that he’ll leave. “I’m _capable_ of making my own decisions, Jack. And I don’t like what you’re implying here. In fact, I think it’s time you-” 

Jack sits up like a dog at point, holding a hand to his ear. There’s a little blue light there Ianto never noticed before, though the device causing it doesn’t look like any Bluetooth he’s familiar with. Jack listens for a moment and then slumps in his seat. “Bad timing, Owen. All right, send the coordinates to the SUV’s sat nav. I’ll take care of it.” 

He stands, grabbing Ianto by the shoulder. “Come on. There’s a weevil loose in Bute Park and I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

* * *

_There’s a woman waiting for you in the empty warehouse. Tall and thin, there’s cunning in her gaze that sets your nerves on edge; like a fox guarding the henhouse. She looks as though she’s good at keeping secrets._

_“You’re late. I almost thought you weren’t going to show.” She takes a step toward you, face covered in shadow. “I’ve arranged everything. The companion will be here any minute; I need to leave before he sees me. Here.” She pulls a wicked looking blade out of her bag, offering the handle. “Use this to do it. The metal has temporal properties that will resonate through the Rift. It should help the message get through. Hide it after and send me a message to come get it.”_

_Her other hand grips yours, tightening around where your fingers hold the knife. She tugs a little, forcing you to look at her. “This is important, Ianto. Do not let this knife fall into the wrong hands. Understand? Here’s a note telling you what to do. Put it in your pocket. Do it now.”_

_You nod and take the note, glancing at the phone number and instructions. The knife is surprisingly light in your grip, warm where her hands were cold._

_She cups your jaw, short nails scratching against the late-day stubble there. “Remember what you’re doing this for, Ianto. Remember Lisa.” She backs away, glancing nervously out the window to the dark car park outside. “Jack should be here any minute. I’ll be watching on the CCTV. Just follow the instructions on the note and don’t forget to-“_

_You grab her arm, cutting off her exit. She frowns and jerks away._

_“I already have a note. Found it in my trouser pocket on the way over. And I’m far more inclined to follow its instructions instead of yours.” You fish the paper out of your pocket -_ there is no companion _– and toss it in her direction._

_She catches it out of the air, a smirk curling her lips as she reads. You drop her note on the floor and tighten your grip on the knife. “Who are you really? Why does Torchwood want me to kill someone with this knife?”_

_“Because we want to help you, Ianto. Don’t you remember?”_

_You raise your arm, blade hovering a few inches from the soft skin of her neck. The metal almost sings as it moves through the air._

_Maybe there is something special about it._

_The woman tilts her head, body going soft and slinky against the threat of violence in front of her. “You’re not going to hurt me, Ianto. You’re not a killer.” Her grin is sudden and a little mad. “That’s what makes you so good at it. You’re the perfect scapegoat. So suggestible. Like a doll.”_

_A chill creeps down your spine. You suddenly want to be very far away from here. “What are you talking about?”_

_She runs a thin hand down the edge of the blade, slowly, like a lover. “I’m talking about my glove, Ianto. You’ve been so very helpful in providing specimens for me to practice with. I’m so close, just one or two more and I’ll have it.” A bead of blood blossoms on her finger – your hand is shaking – and she raises it to her mouth. Her voice is casual as she sucks on the digit. “Thanks in advance for killing Jack, by the way. He was really getting to be a real pain about things. Asking too many questions._

_“You’re right, you know. I made the whole thing up. I took what Jack started and twisted it for myself. It was very selfish of him to keep you for his own pet projects and not share.” She laughs a little, grimly. “The ironic thing is that you already have found a companion. You just don’t know it yet.”_

_It occurs to you that the woman might be stalling for time, waiting for your memory to lapse. If she’s telling the truth then she’s been manipulating you for_ weeks _. Or is she lying? God, what has she made you do?_

_Why did you give her your note? You could have held onto it and at least had a reminder. A reminder…_

_It’s hard to reach the Guide with your left hand, arm folding awkwardly in on itself. You glance from her to the screen, quickly creating a new file on the desktop. She takes a step forward while your eyes are down; you gasp and step back, waving the knife wildly._

_She raises her hands and tilts her head, watching you panic. Then she laughs, a grim chuckle, and motions to the Guide with her chin. “I know what you’re trying to do, Ianto. Pathetic. Go ahead, make yourself a little note. I’ll just delete it when I get back to the Hub. It’s not like Jack will be there to stop me._

_“Do you remember Jack, Ianto? You should - you’ve only been fucking each other blind the past month and a half.”_

_“Shut up.” What meant to be a shout is a whisper instead, scraping between your teeth. “I would never-“_

_“But you don’t know, do you? You could do anything and not remember it, even fuck a man instead of your precious Lisa. Tell me, do you ever feel guilty for no reason? Ever feel sad? Ever wonder what really happened that night in London? This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done something and not remembered it. Like Lisa, and the morphine, and that long drive to Cardiff.”_

_You type blindly with your left hand, hoping like hell it makes some sort of sense. “Shut up. Shut up.”_

_“I’m impressed you made it, to be honest. Especially in the state you were in. Remember the explosion? The screaming?”_

_Oh god. Oh god._

_Somewhere outside a car door slams, echoing like a gunshot through the empty warehouse. You both jerk at the sound, turning to look out the window. There’s a man in a greatcoat standing next to a large SUV. He looks around once and makes his way to the front of the warehouse._

_The woman is suddenly far too close, brushing her lips against your cheek and tightening your hand around something warm and metallic._

* * *

The woman is suddenly far too close, brushing her lips against his cheek and tightening his hand around something warm and metallic.

“This is it, Ianto. He’s the one,” she whispers in his ear. “Kill him to bring her back. _Use the knife_.” And she vanishes into the dark of the warehouse before Ianto can ask her name or what she means. Though there’s really only one thing she _could_ mean…

There’s a man coming through the door, keeping to the shadows along the wall. Ianto tucks the knife carefully into his messenger bag, angling his body so his movements aren’t immediately visible. His whole body is shaking and there’s the sour taste of fear in the back of his throat. 

The Guide is in his other hand, curser blinking in an open file. The text is garbled but certain words are clear: _shecrsaazy jack nocompanion not fon’ttrusttorchwooos helpgtgelp_

Companion. Oh god, this was it. Was he really going through with this?

“Ianto? What are you doing here?”

The stranger’s in period military clothing, gorgeous great-coat fanning behind him like wings. His accent sounds American, though it’s a little hard to tell exactly where he’s from. Ianto tucks the Guide back into his pocket and steps closer. 

“What’s your name?”

The man blinks, broad shoulders slumping ever so slightly. “Jack. I’m Jack, Ianto.” He takes a deep breath, looking around the room. “Funny seeing you here. We got an anonymous tip from this location not twenty minutes after I talked to you. You hung up so quickly I never got the chance to ask what was bothering you.”

Ianto tightens his grip on the knife, the metal warm against his palm. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

He nods. “I was worried, Ianto. And now I find you where a killer’s meant to be. You’re not—“

“No, I’m sorry about this.”

The knife sings through the air, the arc of his arm pushing it straight into Jack’s side. White noise fills his ears for a moment - a burst of heat behind his eyes, palm tingling – and then Jack’s falling off the blade, blood pouring out of the hole in his coat.

Ianto stands there, staring, trying to comprehend what he’s just done. The blood is really coming out now, staining the concrete around the body. (The _body_ , oh god.) Oddly enough, the knife is clean in his hand, as if it consumed the drops clinging to the blade. But that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it?

He sets the knife next to his messenger bag on a clean bit of floor and calls up the camera application on the Guide. A simple click and it’s there forever, pixelated evidence that he’s a murderer. He hopes the Doctor comes soon; he’s not sure how much longer he can stand the roiling in his guts. 

He saves the image to the desktop under “ _Jack, Companion #1_ ” and tucks the Guide back into his jacket pocket. The warehouse is fairly off the beaten path so the body might not be discovered for some time. He feels terrible leaving it lay there exposed to the elements, though he supposes any respect he gives the corpse is moot considering he was responsible for its death in the first place. Still, best to hide it away in a corner just in case.

He’s steeled himself to grab hold of the corpse’s ankles when it jerks back to life, sitting up and gasping out a scream. 

Ianto falls backward, screaming himself. _Fucking hell!_ He flails around quickly for something to protect himself. The knife is too far away for any help, but there’s something dully gleaming at the – what, zombie? Jesus – the body’s belt. It’s a holster.

Jack is bent over his side, coughing up blood and clutching at the wound through the thick fabric of his coat. Ianto darts in, lightning quick, and grabs the gun from him before he can react. He stands shakily, holding the gun with both hands.

Jack coughs one more time, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. “The _fuck?_ Ianto, did you just _stab_ me?” He pulls the coat away from his side, running a hand along the tear in his shirt. The skin underneath is red and wet, but sealed shut.

“What are you? You were dead! I watched you die!” His vision wavers at the edges and Ianto feels very close to a nervous breakdown. Maybe this is all a hallucination. Maybe his condition has finally driven him insane. Maybe he’s still in the Tower, trapped under a conversion unit and bleeding out from a head wound. 

But no, the sweat dripping into his eyes and the heavy smell of blood in the air suggest a reality he doesn’t want to contemplate, one where corpses rise and Ianto is their murderer. The Doctor never came. This is a different kind of madness.

Jack rises slowly, stretching the muscles in his back. “I can’t die, at least not for long; I really don’t want to have that conversation with you again. Wait-” He straightens, eyes wide and staring accusingly at Ianto. “ _You’re_ the killer? Five bodies stabbed to death with a blade of extraterrestrial origin –that was _you_? I don’t believe it. Ianto, what were you _thinking_?” 

Five… What was he talking about? Jack is the first companion Ianto’s found; he would have made a note, a tattoo, if there had been others. “I…” He shifts his stance, backing away from the other man until he stumbles over his bag. His voice is small, a whisper echoing through the darkness. “If I alter the timeline enough then the Doctor will come to fix it. It’ll be like it never happened.”

Jack’s presence is huge in the room, taking up the space Ianto would gladly give away. “And so five people had to die? What was their connection, Ianto? Why were they so important to the universe that you wouldn’t let them live?”

“I - I don’t… The Guide…”

“Jesus. You have no idea what you’ve done, do you? No idea of the lives you ruined.” He steps closer, boots sticking to the gummy floor. Ianto flinches, gripping the gun between them. Jack doesn’t seem aware that Ianto took it from him; he’s shocked – and very angry.

“This was supposed to be simple. This was _supposed_ to be something to keep your mind occupied, to give you something to work on. If it followed my own ends, then so what?” He shakes his head, snarling. “I should have kept you locked up when I had the chance. You’re too dangerous to be kept among normal people.”

Ianto shakes his own head, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Jack advances further still, voice a low growl. “I never should have trusted you. Not after you brought that Cyberwoman to the Hub.”

Ianto’s blood runs cold. “Excuse me?”

“We found you after the Battle in a stolen truck on the Plass, covered in retcon dust and damn-near comatose next to a conversion unit and your dead girlfriend. You led her right to us, Ianto.”

He shakes his head again, Jack’s words not making any sense. “No.”

“She was only half-converted. There were empty morphine bottles all over the truck. You must have dosed her over and over again, trying to stop the pain.” Jack paces forward, leaning into Ianto’s space. “You could have killed _everyone_. But instead, you just killed her. You were too fucked up to even get that right.”

_Fire reflecting in the metallic wetness of her cheek, powdery grit falling from his hair onto her face. Ash and retcon in his mouth._

“No. No, you’re wrong. Lisa died in the conversion machine. The Cybermen killed her. Not me.”

Jack snorts. “You’ve been lying to yourself all along, Ianto. Why should now be any different?” He leans back, rubbing his neck and laughing. There’s no humor in the sound. “You were so sincere, so... I thought you should have a chance to be something other than a victim. And here you were never a victim at all.” 

His voice turns mocking, imitating Ianto’s accent poorly. “ _I just need a purpose, Jack. Give me something to hold on to._ Well, _fuck you_ , Ianto Jones. There’s no going back from this. This is too much, even for me to—“

“Can you really not die?”

“What?” Jack blinks, caught off guard.

Ianto’s voice is quiet after Jack’s yelling, but steady, his decision made. “Can you really not stay dead? Was that the truth?” 

“What does that have to do with—“

The gunshot recoils up Ianto’s arm, a perfect dark circle disturbing the shock on Jack’s face. Ianto watches him crumble, body hitting the concrete with a dull _thud_. He shoots him twice more, in the chest and the knee, assuming it will take him longer to recover if there’s more damage to heal. It won’t hold him for long…unless he has to walk out of here covered in blood and exit wounds. Ianto’s hand doesn’t shake when he fishes the car keys out of Jack’s pocket. Hopefully taking Jack’s transportation will buy enough time for Ianto to get a head start.

He pauses on the way out the door, inhaling great lungfuls of clean night air. The keys in his hand match the SUV in the car park and Ianto turns over the motor, letting the engine heat up. He hides the knife between boxes of alien technology in the back of the SUV, hesitating to throw it away. 

He shows no compunction with the rest of his belongings, spilling the messenger bag onto the passenger seat. Most of it is harmless everyday items – those he returns to their rightful place. There’s a diary he’s never seen before with READ ME on little post-it notes scattered through the pages. He flips through the book, shudders, and tosses the whole thing out the window into a puddle. The gun he stuffs into an empty pocket on the side of the bag, just in case.

The Guide is more delicate and needs a little more attention. He erases the unnamed file saved on the desktop and every mention of the man in the warehouse, even from the copied Archive files. He keeps only one; a candid photo of Jack smiling at the camera saved in his private image gallery. He changes the caption to read: _CPT Jack Harkness, leader T3 Cardiff - Don’t believe his lies._

There. Now he’ll be ready when he and Jack find one another again. And he has no doubt that they will; Ianto’s search program will detect the altered blood cells in Jack’s body and Jack will use CCTV and the on-board sat nav to locate his stolen car. It was as good as destiny.

He returns the PDA to its pocket and shakes out his hands, fixing his hair in the rear view mirror. If Ianto’s life is a lie, he should make it a good one. Jack was right – everyone needed a purpose. Why couldn’t this be his? It wasn’t like he was hurting anyone by it, not really. Jack reset after every death, back to the beginning in the blink of an eye.

Just like Ianto.

He releases the parking brake and pulls out of the lot, carefully driving over the diary where it lies in the dirt. Behind him he imagines Jack waking with a gasp, the sound echoing through the lonely dark. 

_Time to get back to business_ , Ianto thinks, and turns left.

**Author's Note:**

> Lisa’s tattoo looks like this, only without the horizontal lines. Oh, and if you’re considering getting a tattoo please see a professional artist rather than doing it yourself. Your body will thank you.


End file.
